


Full Count, Going With The Pitch

by Linedragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Baseball RPF, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Comics
Genre: (look fish-and-game are cross-culturally the Same Category), Accents, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Athletic Version of Curtain Fic, Background Disability Issues, Check notes for triggers or inquire, Chronic Health Condition, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Current Baseball Players Do Not Appear, Everything in this fic is mild, Father issues, Fluff What Plot, Food, Food Porn (mild), Friends to Lovers, Gen, Graphic Descriptions of Past Injury, Hyperfixated Narrator, It's Just That A Sports Season is Long, Kiss cam, M/M, Mentions of Assistive Technology, Mentions of Cancer, Mild Embarrassment, Misunderstandings, Monolingual Character, Non-Penetrative Sex, North American Cities, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Pining, Polyglot Character, Role Models, Slow Burn, Swearing, Team sports, Women In Power, additional warnings in each chapter, episodic story, hunting and fishing, hydra does not appear, mild violence, pretty sure I asked the wranglers already, there are almost four hundred tags for butchered accents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2020-10-19 10:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Linedragon
Summary: Steve Rogers is living the American dream. He suits up for his favorite baseball team: the Dodgers. He's paid handsomely as a world-class, sure shot Hall-of-Famer athlete who gets to play a kids' game. He lives and breathes baseball.And not much else.He's fairly sure he's okay with that. In the game of baseball, he knows you take it one game at a time, one inning at a time, one play at a time. Because everything could change with one swing of a bat.free-wheeling ◇ ὕδρα-free ◇ hard angst-free ◇ slow-burn ◇ happy endings(!)Baseball tutorials included. Exercise version control, don't sell us out to the Office Of.





	1. Truck Day | The Ranch

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Glenn Burke, the first openly gay professional baseball player. He invented the high-five. Yeah, that's right. Honor our history, bro. 
> 
> _On the violence in this fic._ Non-graphic single shot in chapter 30 that I couldn't skip writing, but you may skip reading. The issue is not with the fic; it's from the subtext. There's a nostalgia blanket thrown over an era from give-or-take a decade ago, but sadly some things just stick out. Further explanation in chapter notes. (For specific assurances, the distressingly perennial instances of baseball players dying young will NOT appear in this fic. ...I seriously wrote the previous sentence in June 2019. Doubling down on that. Hats off.)
> 
> _Possible item in this fic._ A disability could be voluntarily alleviated prior to events in the story. This decision is almost entirely because the character wants to be a pro athlete, and they might have chosen differently under other circumstances. Which is the Captain America origin story, but it merits a warning. (The technology involved is also pure hand-waving.)
> 
> _Author's limited list of items Not Appearing In This Fic._ The punk-jerk responsorial. Actual current baseball players. Actual injuries which would be Sideshow Bizarre if they weren't so common, including the one with the drone. PED cheating. Camden Yards. Although the Mets are pondscum, I am in favor of their Avengers nicknames. I have nothing against the Diamondbacks, it's just that the metaphor fits like a glove. The actual Spider-man connection to the Expos. Explanation for why one of the biggest bullies in MCU shares a name with a Dodger great. The whole Yasiel Puig acquisition is right up my alley, but More than I could painlessly write. And meme to self: It's Okay You Can Say Yadier Molina.
> 
> _As for what is in here?_ Although a good baseball AU is usually painstakingly accurate with the details... I was seized by spring fever and won't be checking anything. (Someone else can elucidate tape-outlining a wall collision, the first anthem standoff, salary arbitration, etc. Also, I witnessed the kiss cam scene actual-facts occurring in KC... that's what you miss when big media only covers the Coasts.) Most of this can be teased out from context. Enjoy the canon parallels!
> 
> Unauthorized duplication and distribution is prohibited. Depictions of real persons are entirely fictional. No infringement nor harm is intended. Canon is not mine, and this is not an endorsement of canon. Feel free to chime in to posted content if you Know Stuff about Mªrvel characters, particularly comics depictions — I have a tiny bit of room for Better Characterizations. Feel free to cite actual-facts chronological history, because much of it is on shuffle. And otherwise ask and/or answer questions in comments!
> 
> Baseball primer is offered only to make this fic more accessible. It might seem needlessly exhaustive, but familiar terms are often so bc they leached from baseball into colloquial slang, and not bc they're intrinsically intuitive. ◇ It has not escaped me that some of the baseball described is and has been and will be methodically mutated beyond recognition by Major League Baseball. So like I said: this is not an endorsement. ◇ All I can say for sure is this is pre-replay, post-wildcard one-game playoff. Let's be real, a league with Steve Rogers in it — why stick with this hell timeline? What if pro baseball was desegregated before World War II, the Mexican community was never displaced to build a park in Chavez Ravine, the Expos were never ripped out from their province, and no DH anywhere, ever? I am the commissioner of this fanfic, and IT SHALL BE SO. 
> 
> espj oz yze hty esp hzcwo dpctpd. (For all-fic spoiler, decrypt rot11.)

"Hey, Cap!" "What up, Cap!" "Como estas, chama!"

Steve slowed his pace to salute at the gaggle of teammates entering the facility. Each of them popped out of sleek, flashy sports cars while lugging the same duffel bags they'd used as pillows on minor league buses. The sole exception was Barton's boxy purple flatbed-slash-SUV with a horde of children — mostly not his own, apparently he was the playdate king — stuck to the windows. Barton himself was playing keep-away with the car keys, to the shrieking botheration of the kids, while Mrs. B loudly reminded him that this was how he'd ended up on the injury list in the first place.

It was about time for Steve to go inside and be social. He'd been running laps since before dawn. His favorite machine in the training room would be left free even in the unlikely event of his being late to morning stretches.

Then there was the clatter of feet on artificially wet grass. "Caught you looking—!" Sam hollered, passing Steve on his left. 

Incensed, Steve put on a burst of speed. Sure, his legs were shorter, but his whole career was built on his sprint. "You son of a...!"

"Language!" Sam yelled over his shoulder, which allowed Steve to catch up. (Barton paused to laugh, and was promptly pinned to his car door. Cheers erupted from the rear seats. Mrs. B did not mess around.)

Steve was so distracted that he nearly turned right instead of continuing forward. He should've been used to the Dodgers' new spring training complex. It's just that he'd been coming to Dodgertown since he was a kid. He even had vague memories of his dad by his side, trying to shield his fair head from the Florida heat. They knew those old barracks like the back of his hand.

They were approaching the lake. Was it artificial too? Since settling on seasonal quarters in Arizona, Steve had taken the time to ride to some of its ancient places, but when in doubt, every feature close to civilization was man-made. 

"Need an escort, rook?" Steve nudged Sam.

"Listen to you, old man," squawked Sam. "I ain't no rookie!" 

Steve sped up just to mess with Sam. "I hear things about their hazing," he said. In truth, Steve had been talking to the union about toning down the rookie hazing rituals. Even then, he could still appreciate a nicely tailored costume and a spiffy hat. Maybe even a garishly spangled backpack. Now that Sam was in their clubhouse, he was looking forward to pictures. He grinned at Sam. "You'll look great in tights!"

"Shut the hell up," Sam said. Belatedly he spared a glance that they were out of range of any little ears. "I will not miss your sass, Rogers."

Sam had chosen free agency a year early to avoid the lengthy and invasive arbitration process. He had been Steve's first friend in spring training back when everyone was giving Steve a wide berth after his own frankly brutal contract negotiations with the then-outgoing Dodgers ownership. When he'd heard, Steve had been crushed to find out Sam was leaving him. At least he had until the end of camp to adjust, since the White Sox and the Dodgers shared the facility. And, Sam reminded him, he did have friends on the team.

That these friends were mostly coaches three times their age, or the kids alternating between riding pine or the minor league shuttle, were mere details. Who had a social life in the big leagues, anyway?

Steve did in fact jog Sam all the way up to the White Sox entrance, where he was waylaid by autograph seekers ("Unbelievable, Rogers. Do not sign Chicago media guides, those will hit eBay in three seconds!") He raced the sun back to their side of the lake.

"You're late," Carter snipped at him.

Steve laughed; she had shown up minutes after he did, her battered Jeep parked next to his vintage Harley. "Good morning, Skip."

"Good morning to you, Rogers. Set a better example, would you?"

Steve snorted.

Sure enough, 'his' machine was free. Phil held up his spare inhaler, Steve shook his head, and they got to work.

◇

The bigger the names got in the Dodgers front office, the more reporters showed up, before, after, and during camp. And they all wanted to talk to Steve. He was one of the few players left over from the previous regime. As usual, most of those old hires had been dealt away or let go. Owners liked to put 'their' mark on a clubhouse, regardless that it was the players that made a team. This had the side effect of making Steve (and the weight of his embarrassingly massive contract) as the "face" of the organization.

"Any thoughts on your slow start, Cap?" someone called.

Steve looked up at the thicket of microphones and recorders and phones in his face. Some of them were literally sitting on the floor, like they'd yank on his apron strings if he had them. He had a mind to call José Altuve to ask how he dealt with the claustrophobic crush of the media. It wasn't like he was Thor, and could casually flex some extra personal space into the locker room.

"It's spring training," Steve said. "We're all here to find our feet, and we will. This team is coming together, no doubt about it."

That probably sounded like a deflection. It was, sort of. Steve was slowed down by his allergies and/or his allergy medication, the latter of which had to be meticulously checked practically every hour to comply with the drug testing standards. Not that Steve was complaining about peeing all the time, and getting his blood drawn every day. If it made the game fair and leveled the playing field for everybody, Steve was wholeheartedly for it.

No, the annoying part was he'd traded an escape from the swamp-borne parasites and fevers of Florida — and that one encounter with a jellyfish — for a desert full of brand new spring allergens.

At least it would throw off the scouts. No one had to know that Steve Rogers was playing at three-quarters speed.

Besides: far more important to impress upon everyone that despite his top billing, this was a team effort. They'd succeed, or fail, as a team. If the media didn't get it, at least his teammates would.

"Are you worried about making the team?"

Steve smiled, at last. That was Lewis; she sometimes laid it on thick with the human interest puff pieces, but she could floor a roomful with a single sharp question.

"I'm always worried about making the team."

◇

The Cactus League was fairly uneventful, except for the zing of anticipation every time he drew back the curtains to reveal green baseball fields, already glistening from a night under the sprinklers. Steve got this rental every year for this view. It meant Opening Day was creeping closer and closer. Stay healthy, get through training, try not to look nervous whenever Peggy strolled by with the clipboard. Soon, the games would count. 

He really ought to buy this place outright. Then again, he might make a change another year. Try something different.

Natasha probably made sure it was on reserve. 

This afternoon there was a break in the routine. Enough cuts had been made that they'd already filmed their promotions and done their little 'baseball card' videos for the local broadcast. Some of the kids had made it to the blooper reel on the official website. The Latin players were working on a mini-documentary on dance moves, which Tony had tried to rope Steve into.

Today a bunch of them were shuttled to a different studio to do their video game footage. Modeling or something.

Clint made fun of Steve for already having a video game batting stance: a rhythmic up-and-down that in reality was more of a tension-relaxation thing. Apparently it made Steve look like a sprite? Steve didn't join in on tournaments that went on during the season. The last game Steve had played was the pixelated one with Ken Griffey Jr. (and he still didn't get most of those references.)

The baseball moves were right in their wheelhouse. It was like running through drills, except with tiny dots stuck all over their athletic shirts. He and Morales nearly cracked something filming an airborne double play, and Steve had to be the responsible one and call it off. The floor was dense as the old foot-shattering Astroturf. Small consolation that they'd recorded that one take — Steve didn't want to admit how much fun that was.

Then one of the ... directors? Programmers? They asked Steve if he had any cool celebration moves. Clint unhelpfully said it was like what wrestlers did; Steve asked if he meant the real ones or the fake ones, which somehow offended half the room. Pretend knockouts? Pretend red carpet walks? Pretend ... surfing? Elbow knocking? Hip bump and a shimmy? Definitely not dances. Bat filps, hell no, he only threw baseballs. High fives? Handshakes? Leaping high fives?

Steve racked his brain. He used to give Sam a hug? Should he offer a hug to Miles, now that he was a lock for second base? Other than that, there was the end-of-game queue for victory high-fives, except for the few times Steve had been able to convince the other team to shake hands for a true Little League 'good game.' 

The video game people looked disappointed. Steve wasn't certain if he should be, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riding pine is not as fun as it sounds; the bench is made of it, so that means that player is usually benched. ◇ Although costumes are still allowed (or in Joe Maddon's case, mandated), 'crossdressing' and hazing are prohibited, particularly at the same time. See outlets like outsports for more; I don't know if MLB's initiatives get specific, or if it's all lumped under the bullying category. (Bullpen hazing is probably still a laugh, because they lean to the creatively wacky anyway.) ◇ Whatever it's called, the high-five line for the winning team is actually fairly new—like 21st Century—though I believe it was Larry Walker who tried to bring hockey-style sportsmanship handshake lines for opposing teams. ◇ Ken Griffey Jr. Presents Major League Baseball is a video game title so legendary that even I've heard of it. (Part of its mystique may well come from its release date of the infamous strike year of 1994.) It was 16-bit, I know y'all can't even imagine, and it was epic, and it was not licensed by MLB, so all the players had pseudonyms. To this day Steve still hears about famous names, and then it dawns on him that was where the fake name came from.
> 
> Truck Day is the day they load up the trucks from the home stadium and drive over to the spring training site. Some cities ignore Truck Day. Others announce it on the front page of the newspaper. It means it's fucking spring, seamheads. 
> 
> Why isn't this chapter called Pitchers and Catchers Report? Read on.


	2. Down Time | @ Toronto Blue Jays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: side reference to hijacking. Still searching for tag.

During the season, Steve rarely paid attention to matters outside their own division. Besides, since they stopped using human beings to draw up the schedules—the Stephensons: Steve had dined with them a couple of times, after their retirement to quell talk of collusion—they were getting more and more ridiculous. Interleague play aside. Teams put in requests to MLB, and besides shifting Opening Day from the possible vestiges of winter, the most frequent demands were for West Coast swings. Which left teams like the Dodgers bouncing all over the country to accommodate the other clubs.

What this came down to was get-away days filled with awful, endless airplane rides. Anti-nausea remedies had to be taken with such precise timing that often Steve skipped them entirely. If he had nightmares curled up in his seat under a mound of newly steam-cleaned blankets, they knew not to bother him.

Once he was on sweet, sweet solid ground, prepping for the next game was a relief.

More than once, Steve had to caution teammates not to follow his example in rigorous preparation. "I play the game fast," he'd explain. "I overdo it in the video room because there's no time to think once I'm suited up. Everybody's different; you could do the same thing and get anxious and get tight, and that'll effect your performance."

They looked at his steadily growing pile of stolen bases. Who stole bases in this day and age? Steve did. They all nodded like they got it. Except for Tony, who scoffed that he still sat in the video room instead of using his phone... but what did Tony know, he'd specialized in pitching since he'd bailed on Little League and had gone under the knife prematurely too.

The only thing Steve was better at than stealing bases was stealing signs. Only Peggy knew officially. Though the pitching coach and the first base coach had probably caught on, too. Steve could strip apart a pitcher's tells before the third inning. It paid to compare notes with the old timers; most active players were too intimidated to strike up a conversation with a Hall-of-Famer. Steve picked up the dinner tab, picked up tricks as old as the game itself, and did his best to distribute knowledge to receptive teammates.

So that was his social life. Rain delays spent bent over a notebook drawing plays for the bench players. Evenings in quiet restaurants drinking ice water with former players and their wives, who pushed their half-finished plates on him because he was so lean as to look starved. Study, study, study until it was time to climb the stairs to the dugout and the vivid grass and the rumbling crowd.

Play ball.

That April was no different. The team wasn't blowing anyone out of the water, but they weren't in a nosedive either. It was a long season. Steve was finding his swing, and he had committed no errors. He was content.

◇

They were in Toronto, and Steve was trying not to yell at Natasha via text. She'd only taken over as his primary agent this past offseason, but they'd been friends for years. She was quite the multitasker. Which was tonight's problem. Apparently one of her clients had gotten detained in Vienna, and was possibly causing an international incident. There went their plans. Steve had actually _made_ plans, put it in his calendar and everything. Heimdall, their long-suffering travel secretary, had been shepherding Steve by the elbow out of the Rogers Center ("Rrrro-gersss, Rrrro-gersss," went the familiar heckling chant, soothingly polite and Canadian since Steve's rookie year), into the team bus, and then through the airport while Steve glared at his phone. 

What little social life he had, he treasured. And Nat was ditching him like the last kid in tee ball.

_You had to cancel the reservations anyway, Captain Whiny ;) ;) ;P _

Okay, he was whining. They were trying to beat the incoming storm instead of getting stranded into next morning; everybody's dinner plans had been uprooted. But Natasha could've met him at the terminal. Probably expensed a cup of coffee and a (small) fancy pastry. He hadn't seen her in ages. Skype wasn't the same, and she invariably called from work, which meant half their conversations devolved into business talk. Bleah.

So Steve wasn't paying attention to why they were stuck in the departure lounge, focusing instead on escalating an insult war with Nat. Beneath the dry witticisms, her stress was building up under one too many tasks. He could cheer her with one of her favorite activities, namely 'making fun of no-fun Steve.' 

Thus he missed the team rushing through customs, and the background noise of wiseasses yelling that Cap was too American to need a passport, and said passport being returned down his shirt-front before being relocated to his bag, and how they piled into the charter only to have it linger at the gate. Out came the headphones and the playing cards and the donut pillows. Steve was parked in a seat as he scrolled through emojis.

He was about to ask Peggy if she knew anything about events in London, never mind that she hadn't lived there in decades, when a commotion broke out at the front of the plane. Steve jolted out of his texting haze. A native New Yorker, he had his share of hijacking-related panics, and he reflexively ducked and looked for the nearest projectile.

Only he saw Peggy rise to her feet, followed by Maria and Nick and even Phil. Peggy smiled.

Then a splash of sound. "No, I thought you were fired, Nick!" came the laugh, and Steve jolted upright, too.

"Bucky?!"

"The hell is Bucky," drawled Stark, who was now awake, no thanks to Steve.

Next to Stark, Rhodey caught Steve's eye. He was rarely surprised by anything, and he was putting it together, too.

"Did I ever tell you I met Bucky Dent when I was in..." Scott began, but Steve wasn't listening. He stumbled up the aisle, nearly tripping on stray knees, ("Barton, your next trick is not putting Rogers on the injury list!"), definitely smacking his funny bone, the buzz of sensation matching what was going on between his ears.

He was so close, he had to tip his head back to look up.

"Hey, Steve," said Bucky Barnes.

"You look like a hobo," said Steve, and someone started guffawing.

Stark drummed a seatback with a loud "Is that Cap being rude? Am I high?"

"Welcome, James," said Peggy mildly. "Do not allow Steve to stow your baggage in the _overhead_ compartments."

Bucky cracked up. The rest of the charter was now popping up like bobbleheads to eyeball the show.

"I hate you all," Steve declared, and tossed his arm around Bucky's neck. "Fuck you very much."

Bucky moved them along, their strides matched up even when squeezing through the aisle made narrower by gawking teammates. "Don't you worry, Skip, it's not like Steve can reach—"

"You're hauling my gear for a month, you rookie piece of shit," said Steve. Even as said teammates recoiled in shock, Bucky beamed at him and with his big, wide hand rubbed what was probably burger grease all over Steve's face.

◇

Once the seatbelt signs switched off, Steve and Bucky and Dum-Dum crammed themselves into an nook meant for two. Didn't matter, as Steve could fold himself up just about anywhere.

"It's about time," said Dum-Dum quietly. "Got the prognosis last week. The knee's all out of cartilage. The stem cell injections didn't take."

"Did you try Dr. Cho?" Steve said quietly.

"I got a guy in Berlin, too," added Bucky.

Dum-Dum shook his head. 

Baseball allowed for all kinds of body shapes, ages, builds, and ailments. Players were marathoners. They learned to be warriors young without going through the trials of violent contact. In the old days the boys had battled through downright inhumane conditions; in these modern times cutting edge medical science could stretch a player's career into their forties. Stretch for that extra inch, nab that extra tenth of a second, keep your mind resilient in the face of constant failure: these were their own triumphs. No one admitted that your spine could be battered like you'd run from a car crash, and be a cortisone shot and a cold October game away from immortality as a world-class athlete.

But knees, they were the dealbreakers.

Even moreso for catchers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abridged note: The Stephensons are real, there's a bunch of docu pieces on them. Stealing signs is absolutely allowed, like bluffing in poker, pump faking in football, or feinting in fencing. You just don't rub it in anyone's face. Communication and guile are merely tactics. Medical realities are real, most medical *details* handwavey, though in Tony's case Tommy John surgery (elbow) at younger ages is also a media documented trend. EDIT: That means stealing signs between the lines i.e. testing the actual athletes playing the game. See, this timeline is fictional and everything.


	3. Peeking In | @ New York Mets

The weather delayed them anyway. They were stuck on the bus, which was good and bad depending on the player. Some guys would rather pace a clubhouse, even an unfamiliar one. Some guys preferred their earbuds and the rumble of a vehicle in traffic. There was no telling which one Bucky was, because he spent the time going over the Mets lineup. Steve would've known the answer, before. Instead he hovered in the aisle seat while Bucky flipped through the video files, and patiently waited for Jimmy Morita to point something out, while Rhodey presided from up high, draped over the seatback. (Dum-Dum was supposed to be helping, but mostly he was in hiding. He was listed as day-to-day, holding off officially adding him on the IL, and Phil took great exception to the delay tactic.)

Then Miles got a case of the jitters in the tunnel, because his entire family had turned up in the stands, and the delay had opened up opportunities for his phone to be blown up all that much more. Steve and PB joined forces to talk the kid through it. And then Steve remembered that Bucky was alone among catchers for not being vocal on the field, if at all. Though he'd lost Bucky to some low-level clubhouse clamor, he assembled the infielders for an impromptu runthrough of Bucky's tells. All of which pushed back Steve's stretching routine, and his long-overdue shower, and Phil's mandatory lung capacity test, so Steve nearly missed Bucky headed to the underground cages to warm up Jimmy.

Maybe it was the overcast sky, or the fact that they were in fucking Queens, but it was shockingly easy to forget which city they were in. It might've slipped Steve's mind if not for Miles, if he were honest. He wasn't the one with any family left in New York City. He located Bucky without looking at him (just like always), and said, "Hey, Buck, did you get a chance to call Becca—"

And then he did look.

So that's what the clubbies had been freaking out over. There hadn't been time to acquire new equipment. Bucky was wearing his black gear, the Expos racing stripes hastily taped over, the dense, dark grid of his catcher's mask propped on top of his head.

"Becca's in Florida," Bucky was saying.

"No fucking way, you gotta be kidding," Steve found himself blabbering. He worried at the crease of his glove, formed a fist and pounded it nervously.

"The U." 

"Little Becca! No shit." He couldn't put a cork on the babble.

Bucky looked over Steve's shoulder. He was smirking like he'd missed not having to strain too far to see over taller people. "Jim, you need my fingers marked?" He patted his chest protector.

Steve was about to remark that surely there was enough contrast, until he noticed Bucky's hands, so bruised that they were nearly blackened.

"I can do it," Steve found himself saying.

"Steve," Bucky objected. 

Like Steve would forget how much he hated tape on his fingers.

"Dum-Dum can play catch for a minute." Jimmy seemed to be taking in the state of Bucky's legs. Maybe Buck had a trick knee, that acted up when the temperature changed, like a rocking chair grandpa. Before Steve could blurt that out, Jimmy clapped him on the back. "Get a move on, Cap. Rhodey's got the glitter bottle." 

That was how Steve found himself speed-painting Bucky's nails in metallic Dodger blue and iridescent grey. 

As Bucky watched and, bemused, bragged about his baby sister, and amidst the echoing crack of bats and baseballs on leather, Steve tried not to dwell on how unrecognizable the calluses were on Bucky's hand.

◇

"Hurry up, Rogers."

"Don't want to mess up your cuticles."

"Blow on them."

"You wish, fuckface."

Dum-Dum boomed into laughter.

The starting rotation weren't subtle. 

"Was that _Cap_?" Luis stage-whispered.

"Who is this person?" boggled Thor.

Perhaps compelled by the fingernail action, Tony worried at his own like he was knuckleballer, and gawked.

All Steve could see was the gruesome rainbow of bruises. 

There'd be a new layer laid down tonight, the marks of a catcher.

◇

It wasn't until Steve took the field that the full effect smacked him in the face. 

The coast-obsessed highlight reels may not have followed Bucky; the nickname had. Cleveland had been blitzed by a sleet-out in the spring of their rookie year, and before they'd called it dead and official in the seventh, Bucky had rapid-fired ten groundball outs from frostbitten fingers. He had strolled off the field as the Winter Soldier. Eccentric Montreal had apparently embraced the moniker. Natasha even had a SOLDAT cap hanging in her office's souvenir nook. 

Now Steve was set up across the diamond from Bucky. The helmet was smoky dark blue which seemed like it had started out shiny as a custom car only to be mottled by coal dust. The padding was so streaked with pine tar as to turn its creamy tan to an unintentional camo pattern. The cage of the mask was laid out in a gradient that nearly completely obscured Bucky's mouth; where, higher, it seemed too open, eyeblack smeared across those sharp cheekbones and the ballpark's tower lights cast inky shadows over his brow. The only break in the solid dark grey of the chest protector were the shadowy remains of the extracted fleur-de-lis patch like a curl of misplaced limbs. Bucky crouched and stilled behind the plate, a void in the backdrop of umpire's black shirt. The only areas of light were the glint of polished fingernails, the friction-burned hollow of his glove, and the incisive blue glare of his eyes.

He caught and released almost lazily, casual as a game of backyard catch, except in that stillness was a rock-hard power, enough to fold a big man like Bucky into a living piston, an unfired gun. 

And Steve got the feeling, if he could see through Bucky's eyes, that he knew every one of Jimmy's moves. He knew this homeplate ump. He knew the hitter, every one, and there were only a handful of catchers who could crawl into your soul and read your whole plate appearance from the shift of your cleats and the line of your back. There was no way to quantify that, play to play, breath to breath, no book that could explain the shivery instinct of Steve's that Bucky could read every player on the field in a single sweeping glance.

Across the expanse, his gaze slashed across Steve's face, and Steve felt the springs of his muscles brace with anticipation, sensing without seeing that although Bucky didn't know their infield yet, Steve did.

Between the two of them? They had this.

◇

"Run support," sighed Jimmy.

"Sorry Fresno," Quill said as he passed by, wrapped in a towel and headphone cords connected to a Walkman and a Zune, earbuds optional. He'd hung a fat one to their pinch-hitter, and they'd lost their lead for good.

"Not on you, Starlord," the starter sighed again. "Runs." 

"Good thing wins don't matter anymore," said Tony. He tugged at his towel, then hesitated. "Barton!"

"Kid free!" Clint hollered from the main locker room.

Off came Tony's towel.

Bucky was getting unstrapped from his gear by Nick. While Phil counted off the seconds on an actual stopwatch, Steve submerged his legs in the cold bath and wondered if he should've helped Bucky out of his armor. Then wondered why Bucky needed assistance in the first place. 

"...hope we won't be doing this naked, Stark," Bucky was saying. 

"Out," prompted Phil.

Steve jumped out with a slosh, then wobbled, a shade mortified, before he beelined for the hot tub, dripping the whole way. It wasn't standard treatment, or ideal, but cold could squeeze his lungs at the most inopportune times.

"I have a program," Tony said. "Wrote my own interface, I'll have to teach you the basics. Or you could ask Scott. He speaks tech-to-English."

"What's one more language," Bucky shrugged. Or tried to. Steve caught the wince.

Miles leaned over the lip of the tub. "Uh, Mr. Rogers...?" he whispered.

Alas, Jimmy heard that. His gloom-and-doom fell away, and into the clubhouse din he shouted, "Sweater vest!"

"No! I wanted to put him in the shoes!" Dum-Dum cried.

Steve sank down to his chin. "Yes, Miles?"

"It doesn't even make sense to wear a trolley!" Bruce called.

Luis was demonstrating the word 'trolley' for the newer Latin players, while Yondu hung around to be vehemently contrary.

Bucky looked confused.

"Sorry. Steve." Miles was cringing.

Steve tried to deflect Bucky's questioning glance. "It's okay, Miles. What's up?"

It turned out Miles wanted a veteran to come along to dinner, and possibly brunch, with his parents. ("They did this when I was in Miami!") Apparently PB was welcome at the family table, but had only succeeded in embarrassing him even more. Like curl-up-and-shrivel-up bad.

"I don't speak Spanish...?" cautioned Steve.

"You have that kind of face, Mami says," insisted Miles.

Steve did not know what that meant. But everyone in the treatment room snorted.

"A picture of a trolley doesn't count!"

"Would you gents keep it down!" yelled Peggy. "You have the biggest echo chamber in the world—"

"Tell us how you really feel, Skip!" Tony interjected.

"—right outside the door, and you're stinking up the clubhouse! Nick, are we finished with the press?"

"Outside the door is _Queens_."

"Some stragglers, Skip," came Nick's even reply.

"Who are they interviewing? Oh lord, go out there and make sure it's not the bloody relievers."

"You don't hate Queens, do you, Steve?" Miles fretted.

Bucky caught Steve's eye. Steve bit his lip.

◇

So Steve's detailed report to Natasha (on her second bottle of wine) was that he and Bucky were back in New York. And he'd spent most of that time being adopted by the Morales family, trying to locate a museum with the old Brooklyn trolleys, and shopping for a sweater-vest with Dum-Dum and Jimmy. Bucky holed up with the staff, and apparently picked up everything about Tony's program, and otherwise didn't see daylight for the whole series. It was like they'd switched places; Steve wasn't surprised.

Back when they'd first met, Steve had hunched over a sketchbook and drawn out spray charts by hand. Bucky had drawn a baseball diamond, copied it at a strip mall office center, and stapled the whole thing into a birthday gift. Before that, Steve had drawn out every single one. "You'll break your wrist drawing," Bucky had said.

Which was grimly ironic, Steve thought.

Now Bucky went over game plans fastidiously. He interrogated the bullpen pitchers—a questionable venture at best—and even teased out a comprehensive answer from Bruce. Steve heard, anyway. Dum-Dum's contribution was turning over his old-fashioned helmet, grandly pointing out the notes he'd scratched out on the interior, while the rest of the bus shouted about the stench. 

Steve later found out from Peggy that Buck had requested the number of a minor league scout to get the book on a possible call-up.

The Steve of today? He ran. He got his treatments. Took the stairs instead of the elevator, and counted practice swings in the cage. Then he was ready. 

It was the game of baseball. The ball would find you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IL means injured list. Nerds will note it's too early in this timeline, but in this world the problematic predecessor is long gone. Shenanigans, now, those may be old as the List. The issue with the trolley is more an issue with pronunciation, as well as the difference between Trolley of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and the trolleybuses common to South American cities, specifically Venezuela. Bullpen pitchers = relief pitchers ("coming in/entering [the game] in relief") = relievers. Just to reassure everyone that the homoeroticism didn't get lost, yes, cycling through signs for the pitcher (like a menu scroll) to select pitches occurs via the catcher's fingertips between his thick thighs. In reality catchers who do paint use white-out. Here, I welcome nail polish recs.


	4. Pick-Off | @ Arizona Diamondbacks

Dum-Dum took his leave in Arizona. 

Steve had to borrow Clint's latest SUV to rescue some rookies and Quill, who counted as one, from a haboob downtown. "We had tornado sirens in Missouri!" Quill had yelled, and gotten a mouthful of sand and who-knew-what else. Quill was coughing for ages. Phil yelled at Steve for ages, and earmarked a vial of blood to test for infections and who-knew-what-else. 

PB and Miles got to chanting 'haboob', and Thor was this close to spreading it to the rest of the clubhouse.

Between fool's errands and his own steel-clad routine, Steve nearly missed Dum-Dum's So Long Suckers party. Steve didn't get why he was bailing so close to home, only to find that Dum-Dum was headed in the opposite direction: a possible treatment in Europe. "Some town I can't pronounce," Dum-Dum had said cheerfully. "They're all the same, eh?"

Peggy snorted. "I rather think not." Her accent positively dripped, sharply posh.

Luis and Hector started yelling out Caribbean towns, over the growing chorus of 'habooooob'. Bucky didn't look up from the scouting report on his laptop to toss in a few villages. In French. Steve rubbed the back of his neck until Phil's inquisitive stare found him.

His gaze fell on the lineup card. It wasn't the sort of thing Steve _thought_ about. Just... "Hey, Luke," he called to the first baseman.

"S'up, Cap." Luke ambled over and didn't bother to sit down, which given the size difference was the picture of intimidation. Steve appreciated it.

"Heads up for Barnes."

Luke regarded Steve for a moment. Then he gave a curt nod, and returned to his card game.

Bucky was listening. He didn't look up.

Dum-Dum got his arms around Steve and chanted 'haboob' in his ear until Phil rescued him. "Shut the fuck up," Steve told Bucky, even though the latter was definitely not laughing.

◇

The Snakes weren't exactly bigtime rivals. They ran as hot and cold as the desert over the course of a day — up and down, their propensity to play spoiler was something to watch out for.

Then there were the umpires. Thor's changeup was a little off-target, which normally wouldn't have been a major problem ... but for the strike zone shapeshifting into this amorphous blob whose midsection slumped every time a lefty came to the plate. At least the other pitcher had to deal with it too. Steve was twirling his bat in the on-deck circle when an L.A. fan hollered, "The fix is in!"

It wasn't a total ump show, quite yet. Peggy was starting to twitch. Fortunately Thor was keeping his temper. (Steve had overheard that he had some ladies in town to see him, presumably a mellowing effect.)

If Bucky was annoyed with the calls, he didn't show it. Didn't even crane around to mutter at the ump. This close to home, the equipment guys had procured a new chest protector in a twilight blue field bordered with seemingly irregular thin silvery lines that resembled some kind of Morse code. Steve couldn't figure it out, beyond that it paired with their road greys. By the second inning he realized the dashes matched the motion streaks in the Dodger logo. And Clint—like he'd worked at a cosmetics counter, or, more likely in L.A., wandered into a low-budget movie set and been conscripted—had apparently applied Bucky's eyeblack. It too was a dark matte blue. The effect was a touch provocative, given the closed roof.

D-backs on first and second, looking to clog the bases. Thor had switched to a groundball game, tempting hitters into outs, keeping Steve busy in the infield. His back was screaming for an extended massage, and maybe a hundred years in an air conditioned hotel room. Yet he felt like a live wire, rocking on his toes as much as Bucky was becalmed on the other side of the diamond. He wasn't looking at the runner on first. He never did. He never had to.

In the world according to the ump? It was three balls, one strike.

On paper, runners were on first and second. On the field, they were both drifting to take their respective leads.

Steve sensed the runner dig his leading toe like he was drilling for a subterranean cavity. Without speaking, Miles knew to shadow the runner while Steve covered the gap. The air was electric. He didn't need to look at Buck. He forced himself not to change his own rhythm, and—

Bucky was firing to second instead of first, so low that Thor hit the dirt like he was stamping it _with his face_, Steve was leaping for the base, the catch itself barely in the mitt as he rudely _smacked_ the tag then spun in mid-air to line the ball over the incoming runner's shoulder, into the general vicinity of Luke's center of mass. Steve didn't know if it'd worked, because gravity took over and he too was eating dirt. 

The runner on second, who had gotten a face full of Steve's leather, bit out an expletive, picked himself up. "Still kicking, Cap?"

Steve found himself grinning, full of mirth. "A fuckin' double steal!?" he crowed. _Trying to get a jump on Bucky Barnes?_

A split second too late, Steve realized he was showing up the other team. 

But something must've shown on his face, or maybe he was doing an impression of a mudkipper flopping on the shore because all he got was a pat on the butt and an amiable "Not personal," before the runner jogged back to his dugout. Den? 

Miles helped Steve to his feet in time to see Thor ambling halfway to home plate, ostensibly to collect a clean ball, mostly to salute Bucky's explosive throw.

By the look on Miles's face, the play had looked exactly as awesome as it had played out. Steve waggled two fingers to signal the number of outs. 

They squeaked out a sloppy win, with which Peggy was rightfully unhappy. Not enough to entirely dampen spirits — Thor took one look at Steve's filthy uniform and offered to toss him in the pool.

"You're just as bad!" protested Steve, darting from Thor's lunge. "Holy shit, check this out," he said, holding up hands to signal a time-out. "Your bling bit you!"

In the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky go ramrod stiff, caught wrongfooted.

Somewhere, Tony squawked, "Did Cap say bling?!" and Steve decided to let Bruce pull Thor's jersey down instead of standing on tiptoes to do it himself. Bruce had a thing about nudity; everyone had seen him naked, and he'd allegedly seen everyone else in their altogether (Peggy and Pepper deigned not to confirm nor deny.) It was said he had a top secret unit at a nudist resort.

And Thor? Had a pound of jewelry swinging around his neck. It wasn't actually reflective—the league having laid down the law from on high—but there had to be real gold under all the coated wires and leather knots. The entire training staff kept trying to talk him out of it, especially on the days of his starts, but Thor refused to go without a single piece. Everyone else called it bling. There was a running bet, in restaurant checks and carpools, as to who would ever see Thor without all his chains. As though anyone needed an extra reason to stare at Thor.

"Wow," said Bruce, peering at the welts over Thor's collarbone.

Inexplicably, Steve was giggling. "You hit the deck _hard_." All of Thor's hardware had left an indent on him. 

"My life and death flew past my helmet!" Thor bellowed. That was Thor sober, too. "I bear these marks with pride!"

"Put a cold pack on them, or you're getting a scan," said Phil in passing.

Bruce already had the medical tape. "Line up before it's gone," he said, and Steve took another look at Thor displaying his war wounds before retreating from the crowd of his taller teammates.

"Thought you'd end up in the pool," said Bucky. He'd sneaked up behind Steve.

Steve thought about saying 'Fuck you.' Except it was getting repetitive. "The D-backs get pissy about the pool. Like you wouldn't believe." Shit, his accent kept thickening around Buck. "I can't hold my breath long enough to do a Jaws impression."

"You can't?" said Bucky, then someone was hollering that a tank was free, and he was off.

Steve thought about that one for way too long.

On the way out, Luke intercepted Steve. "Thought the heads-up was for me."

"Dunno if you wanna work out signs with Barnes," said Steve. He sounded like he was hedging, and elaborated. "You saw how the ball snapped. That bullet's gonna sting when it hits you," he reasoned, since first base was closer than the far side of the infield.

Luke gave him that 'I'll think about it' face.

◇

At the hotel, Heimdall expertly cornered Steve. 

(Counting that one, these were the most conversations he'd had after the post-game buffet.) 

"Rogers, you're with Barnes." 

He handed him two hotel keycards. 

"Uh," said Steve. The statement filtered into his mind as making sense. Dum-Dum was his usual suitemate. And since he was gone, well. That made sense. "He... doesn't have a key? Where is he?"

Heimdall gave Steve a baleful stare. "Your guess is as good as mine." 

"...really?" Steve's voice was pitching high with incredulity. There went the theory that Heimdall had tagged them with tracking devices. 

"It's likely he's going over the plan with a pitcher or two," said Heimdall, like he was having pity on Steve. "Don't lock out the new guy in the hallway."

Steve recalled that he'd locked out Bucky on purpose plenty of times, and the guy had turned out all right. Probably not the thing to say to the team's travel secretary. 

Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd stayed up waiting for Bucky. 

◇

In the end, Steve succumbed to the lulling chill of the air conditioning. It was Bucky who found him. Somehow. 

At least, that was who he thought was banging on the door in the middle of the night. 

Steve clambered out of bed — gross, he hadn't removed the top duvet — and slid a keycard under the door. 

There was a pause. 

Another thump, and maybe some words.

Bucky managed to get the door open. "I could've been a serial killer!"

"Knew s'was you," said Steve, halfway back to bed.

"Could've killed you already," and somehow he was steering Steve back around. "Get me a ginger ale."

"Gross, you still drink those?" mumbled Steve, before realizing he was going the opposite direction of bed. "What."

Bucky slipped some quarters in Steve's palm. He nudged it closed. The grip on Steve's wrist was a loose loop. "C'mon, light a fire under it. Down the hall, don't bump into the swinging door or you'll end up on the IL."

Injured...? "M'not. Will not!" Steve swayed into Bucky's space. He didn't even bother blinking at him. Was he in pajama bottoms? "Regular or diet?"

Bucky's horrified look penetrated Steve's grogginess. "Why would I drink diet!?"

"Shhh, okay, you butt," said Steve. "Come get me before the serial killers do."

"For a garden gnome, you suck at sneaking."

A short joke from someone else would probably have earned a chop on the side of the head. "Don't have to." Steve ventured out the door. 

He did in fact have his keycard with him. The coins were still warm. He tried to sneak like a spy. He was pretty bad at it, true enough. For the most part, his version of disappearing was standing next to a crowd of bigger, strapping dudes. In a town like L.A. there was no shortage. And maybe it was a bad idea, but he liked meeting his fans in public. It was like a free promotion for the Dodgers. Also, he owned a faster motorcycle than the paparazzi. He had leaned on Nat to make the team pay the insurance without bugging him about it.

The swinging door was no match for his athletic prowess. Far slower than usual, Steve stared at the vending machine. After the plink of the coins, he couldn't hear anything, there was nothing to hear, which was weird. It was a small alcove he was standing in. This was what they called a liminal space. Condensation partially obscured the display. Steve wiped the glass, squinted, and with great care, punched out the code.

The metallic ricochet and thump of the can were unnervingly loud.

Somehow he found himself back at his door. Their door. He balanced the can on top of his head; ooh, it was chilly. His brain might freeze. Door managed to be unlocked, and he was through, can still on his head.

Briefly he entertained kneeling to offer it to Bucky, when he was met with: "You gotta headache?"

"Huh?" Now Steve did blink. "Oh, no. Lazy."

"No one would believe that if I said it," murmured Bucky. He seemed weirdly shy. That threw Steve more than the liminal hallway.

"Gnomes don't have to sneak," Steve said softly. There was also a lack of music, that was the thing. Dum-Dum would settle for a clock radio over silence. 

"You're admitting you're a gnome?" Bucky glanced down at the can of ginger ale. He was standing close, again.

Steve fought back a yawn with his whole body. "General statement. They'd make great spies." He finally noticed that Bucky wasn't taking the can.

"Could you open it?"

Oh. 

Steve was a touch more awake, now. That could explain the shyness. Steve looked down and... oh. Jesus. Bucky's hands were _hamburger_. 

Catcher's hands. Steve had never seen Bucky's hands like this. And he'd been going over game plans nonstop.

Steve's throat was clogged with more than drowsy sleep. He didn't look at Bucky. If he tried, he'd probably have gunk in his eyes. 

Popped the tab. The carbonation hissed. 

Before Steve could ask if he was okay, or if he needed anything, Bucky tossed it back like it was a yard in a bar. Sheesh, Steve didn't even go to bars anymore. 

"Thanks." He hadn't missed a drop. 

"You got all polite since Canada." Steve found himself sitting. Huh, covers.

Bucky swung himself into the other bed. From toes to hips, he had to be hurting. "Go back to sleep, Steve." He hid a smile behind the can. He trapped the cold can with both hands, wedged between his palms. "Can't tuck you in."

Steve nodded. That did make sense. "I'm right about the gnomes," he persisted, crawling under his covers, not caring if his butt was inchworming up in the air. Far more important that he'd inserted his personal sheets into the envelope of questionable hotel beddings, or Phil would get on his case in the morning.

"Of course you stand up for your own kind," said Bucky easily.

What a shit. "Every kind," Steve objected. "Even your buttface." Which... could easily be a compliment. Bucky's glutes, and his thighs and his shoulders, were impressive even in their L.A. media-ready clubhouse.

"Still gotta have the last word," Bucky observed.

"Yes."

They smiled in the general direction of each other. Bucky sat and sipped away, while Steve rustled around capturing heat for his nest. The lighting shifted. Dum-Dum would've asked if Steve needed the light, or wanted it dimmed, or the lampshade unscrewed. Bucky didn't need to ask. There were some longer pauses like Bucky was about to unleash a killer burp; he refrained.

It occurred to Steve that Dum-Dum would've retreated to the adjoining room. On account of those connecting door things. Not that he was getting along with doors.

Bucky had already made himself comfortable.

"Hey, Buck," said Steve into the covers. "That was a great pick-off."

He didn't have to see to know Bucky had frozen, mid-swallow. "...thank you."

Steve drifted off.

◇

In the morning, Steve watched Bucky pack his gear into a rugged backpack with a surplus of straps. He held out his hand to Steve, then after a moment, squeezed the air impatiently.

His nails were already painted.

...he was going to keep pawing at nothing until Steve got with the program.

Steve gave him his stuff. He didn't have much. The vast majority of the detritus ended up in his pockets. The rest, the team took care of.

Bucky carried his gear for the remainder of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little early for haboobs, probably a heat wave. Holding up two fingers to count outs. Not only does number of outs affect strategy... fielders do lose track. Today's major league players don't room together — 'cause they flush yo (and they are more likely to be steadily partnered) — but I figure someone up the chain decided these menaces need a buddy system. Outside of the Show they're probably all bunked up. ◇ In case it's not clear: eyeblack is theoretically to reduce reflected glare off your own cheekbones. When it's a covered stadium with the roof closed, there's no sunlight, thus provocation. Eyeblack used to be controversial in baseball. See: stuff that got the talking heads twisted at Bryce Harper and Little Leaguers.


	5. Off-Day | Vs San Diego Padres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's just us three fishies: future heads up, I'm drafted through 8 chapters, though outlined to the end. Correcting myself — ahaha I do know who the mystery Padres player is. Just like I know who the fish taco guy is.

Steve had formed the vague notion that he'd show Bucky around L.A. It wasn't until he was back from his morning run that he realized he didn't know where Bucky had spent the night. Steve had started cleaning his condo in the middle of the night, which wasn't unusual, particularly after the short flight from Arizona. It wasn't until he was on his second morning coffee that he realized he'd changed the linens in the guest room. The linens which hadn't been slept in since Steve moved in.

He told anyone who inquired that he was still looking for his dream mansion, but Natasha knew better. The high-end housing complex was across the street from a private garage with a modest test track. Besides, mansions all came with lawns. Lawns in SoCal made Steve deeply uncomfortable. If he had one, he'd probably turn it into a test track, too.

It then occurred to him that he hadn't filled Bucky in with any of this. Back in Phoenix they'd filled the sleepless hours talking shop. Bucky had shown him Tony's 'improved' pitch charting program. Steve had broken out his new fitness watch. They'd played catch while tucked into their respective beds, weighted down by a rotation of hot and cold packs. Bucky was one of the only people who knew that playing catch was a thing with Steve and his mom, hospital bed or otherwise. Steve had lingered on that thought for a long time before sleep overcame him.

Therefore, Bucky didn't know where Steve lived. 

Did he even have his number? Steve could remember the lineup of the '42 Dodgers, but non-baseball details often fell by the wayside. Heimdall was just too good at his job! And on an off-day like this, Steve had Natasha. Usually. She was apparently somewhere in Virginia. Steve managed to send her those teacups full of flowers with the cheap stuffed bears, because Nat loaded her itinerary on all of Steve's devices, and roped someone into writing it down on sticky notes in Steve's daily meal deliveries. Steve did have Natasha. She never let him forget it. 

However. Nat didn't know Bucky. 

(Did she?)

He had to be in the greater metropolitan area somewhere. Maybe. How hard could it be to find one guy? 

Eventually Steve caved in and texted Nat. Before he could phrase an request for Bucky's location, he was provided with intel on Dum-Dum. He plugged a bunch of European sites through online translations, and sent him a cake shaped like a hat. 

It was Dum-Dum who had an idea of everyone's whereabouts, which was a bit galling since he was on another continent. This culminated in Steve receiving an actual phone call from Monty Falsworth. 

"Can't talk, old boy, we're on a mission!" 

Steve briefly wondered if that was a movie reference. "Don't get caught?" 

"Nothing like that, Cap!" There was what could have been bar noise in the background, except it wasn't even noon and in L.A. that could be a naked sushi restaurant or a movie set. 

"What are you doing?" Steve said, feeling oddly out of his depth.

"It's a secret!"

"Go on, tell Steve. He'll waste his off-day chasing us all over—"

Steve squinted like it was a video phone. (Nat had been right about the audio quality, though, it was like they were right there in his kitchen.) Had he found Bucky? He didn't sound right. Or maybe it had been years since Steve had hit the town with Bucky, if the team hotels didn't count.

"Cap does things on his days off?!"

"We're inducting Barnes into the Secret Society of James."

"Jameses!"

Steve blinked. That was Rhodey? "Oh."

"Mum's the word!"

"Jimjams is what my youngest sister—"

"Yeah," said Rhodey in a stern voice. "You cannot tell a soul. Is your middle name 'James'?"

"...no?" Steve wasn't sure if it was rude to point out that everyone knew his middle name. Celebrity was weird in L.A., and even weirder among teammates. Besides, he'd sooner jump out a window before he ever let the words _Do you know who I am?_ pass his lips.

"He's an only child," Bucky broke in. "No siblings."

Ah. Unless his dad had been busy after (or before) he skipped out on them, Steve didn't have any relatives named James. 

"You are not authorized to know the secrets of the Secret Society of James," Rhodey informed him. 

"Am I authorized to know that it exists?" Steve asked. 

"NO!" came the chorus. Of James, apparently. Jameses.

"We like you," explained Morita. Steve sat up, unexpectedly cheered by the endorsement. "You can _visualize_ a secret society that doesn't exist. Just don't talk about it."

"Gotcha."

"Don't spend your whole off-day thinking about it," advised Bucky.

"Surely not!" Falsworth rebutted. "One of these days, we'll find out Cap is some vigilante superhero roaming the streets on his off-day."

"Have fun and don't call me for bail money," Steve said.

There was a collective gasp.

"Cap wouldn't come to get us?" said a James. He sounded mournful.

"If you calculate it by AAV, Tony makes more than me. Hit him up this time."

"A! A! S!"

That was definitely Bucky. And technically it _was_ average annual salary. Steve was pretty sure. He'd ask Nat.

"Does he own a car that fits all this James action?" 

"Clint does, but Mrs. Hawkeye wouldn't let him go."

"You're right, Tony would pick up. He'd roll right up."

Another question occurred to Steve. "Who bails out Tony?"

There was an uncharacteristic silence.

"Probably me," said Rhodey at last. "Come on, James. Let's blow this joint."

"Who says that anymore?"

"Are there popsicle stands in L.A.?"

The hang-up was probably accidental. Nonetheless Steve was left feeling downright peppy. No one said that anymore, that was for sure. Well, he did play an old-fashioned game. No matter how many times they lowered the mound or doctored the balls.

An hour later he was tossing a baseball at his high ceiling and wondering if PB and Quill had a Peter Society. Club. That sounded like a sandwich. They also had two Jasons, but did it count if one of them was a coach?

God, he was useless on off-days. He tried his drawer of take-out menus (which, judging by the sticky notes, Nat had curated) and went out to get a sandwich. Maybe he wouldn't run into any reality shows being filmed.

◇

Steve showed up at noon for the night game. He briefly felt bad about it, saying hi to the yawning clubbies pushing laundry carts and restocking the tubs of bubble gum. Even the fish taco guy had been waiting in the parking lot. (His name Steve had yet to catch, only because he cared more about fish tacos than people.) Steve didn't like feeling as though he was throwing his weight around. He'd signed a lengthy contract more out of loyalty than to cash in on his early success. 

Technically he had an excuse, showing up three (okay, four) hours early. He didn't have a family to make demands on his time (rookies not included), or a social media account to fill with what Nat called 'humble brags.' 

Even Peggy wasn't in yet, and she'd been known to sleep in the corner cot in her office. 

Natasha probably hadn't tipped off the fish taco guy. Steve was pretty sure. Mostly. It would be difficult to act like he wasn't throwing his weight around with Nat blithely sweeping the perimeter clear and rolling out the red in advance of his every step. 

Steve finished a few rounds up and down the bleachers. He thought about introducing Bucky to Natasha. Would that be against CBA? Couldn't be, that was between players. Would that get Bucky in trouble with his agent, though? 

By the time they started setting up for batting practice, Jason Strongbow cornered him to apologize for Arizona. "I would've picked them up, Cap." Steve waved it off; there was nothing to apologize for. Everyone knew he had family living on the reservation. The gossip was that he'd tried to move them into his mansion, but leaving their lands was out of the question. Mansions weren't for everybody.

Strongbow wouldn't let it go. Quill had texted him about twenty times before the skies started to change, and he felt obliged as the hometown guy... Never mind that half the league kept homes in the desert. And the Dodgers were flush enough to have car services lined up in every major league city. Steve worked out and Jason got a haircut while he tried to figure out a way to make it up to Steve, and Steve tried to let him. Apparently Steve was really hard to shop for? He got novelty pens from Natasha. And there was still a box of Bucky's old spray chart templates at his condo. In the bizarre inflation of millionaires doing favors for each other, Steve supposed he was a hard nut to crack. He already had a couple of garages' full of bike gear. If he owned jewelry, it was all sentimental. He didn't even wear cufflinks.

When Steve ran back out in uniform, he hoped to do warm-ups with Bucky, only to find him in the middle of the serious business of making up a special handshake routine. Then Steve got caught up interacting with the young fans who'd gone through all the trouble of convincing their parents to fight L.A. traffic to get to the ballpark early. 

It was different for _fans_. This wasn't their job (though Steve kept an eye out for autograph hounds who used kids to collect their 'product' — they were rightfully wary of Steve, but California was full of the shamelessly brazen). Steve didn't do a lot of public appearances; this might be a particular fan's only chance to meet their hero, ever. Phil had to catch up with him and herd him back inside, and then he was poised on the top dugout step, cap and glove at the ready, looking around...

Bill strutted by with his ump's mask under his arm. "You got some black on your wrist, Cap." He smirked.

"It ain't pine tar, honest!" protested Steve, and Bill laughed, continuing to strut past to convene with the other umpires. 

So Steve spent the ceremonial first pitches scrubbing the ink off of him. Wouldn't have mattered in college, mostly, but if he liked to take the field pristine, he had to be mindful of how close the close-up shots could catch you on tv. In the nick of time he dashed out from the far side of the dugout — yup, the first batter hadn't changed from the announced lineup — and dug in for Dodger baseball.

Three batters later, he looked in on the catcher, only to freeze.

Bucky _was_ catching today.

They'd set him up with new catching gear. The chest protector was similar to the one in Arizona, except the grey motion streaks were now white, less distracting on his home uniform. The twilight blue now faced out, and everywhere, on pads and mask, the shade faded in an ombré effect into the bright, bold Dodger blue along his flanks and every single buckle and strap. The gradient should've been distracting to the pitcher. Except Bucky held himself so quietly, came set and simply went statue-still, that he seemed like a frozen puddle of pre-dawn sky, visually melding into the premium front-row seats like a ghost, unreal save for the beat-up leather of his catching glove.

The baseball hit that glove with a muffled clap. Steve jerked like it was thunder.

Set in that sky blue were piercing blue-grey eyes. They flicked to the batter, reading an invisible language. Then they shot across the infield to pin Steve where he stood.

Bucky glanced back to the baseball. Steve swallowed. He braced for the pitch.

◇

Victor Alvarez was their starter tonight, a fireballer who was trying to get a grip on his secondary pitches. He was a great kid, studied hard, but he was a little jumpy pitching at home. They'd only recently convinced him that his safety glasses (he'd had a close call with a comebacker in the minors) weren't dorky at all. The younger call-ups said it was 'on-brand'; Steve was one of the guys bringing up Eric Gagné. 

Bucky lunged after every ball in the dirt, and it was a shock to see him spring from a steady stance and quiet hands to full on sacrificing his body to block what would've been wild pitches. It got Steve wondering if he'd actually spent time in goal on a rink, didn't all Canadians play hockey? Bucky made it look effortless. With the confidence that his breaking balls would be fielded no matter what, Victor did settle down.

The game got tense in the seventh inning, Bucky hitting a squibber and then almost losing a step because a fan imitated a siren noise. Steve had been on the top step, calculating pitch sequences, so he hadn't seen it, and he'd long tuned out the ambient sounds. Bucky got thrown out, Steve came up with two outs instead of one, and the pitcher tried a completely different approach on Steve, who struck out to send them to the eighth inning.

The first man up for the Fathers barreled up for a no-doubter. So they were down one, instead of tied.

Watching the staid homerun trot, Steve tried to remember what Natasha had said about this batter, he had an inkling that she knew him from somewhere, and he couldn't call her during the game to get a book on him.

Bucky did his courtesy coverage of homeplate, but he caught Steve's eye. He knew better than to gratuitously point during an opponent's homerun. Even as the Padres moved their celebration to their dugout, he was already moving towards the mound, and Steve was compelled to meet him in the middle. What was the matter? Had he noticed something?

They converged in the center as Peggy arrived to figure out a double-switch, pat their relief pitcher on the bum, et cetera. Steve studied the distant look on Bucky's face. His mask was propped on top of his head, the attached mouthguard jammed in the grid so as not to flop wild. He'd taken his glove off, and was squeezing it behind his back in a sad approximation of Phil's hand exercises.

"Is that a beachball?"

"Uh," said Steve.

Bucky looked unbothered. Serene, even. Some of his hair had escaped the pinch of the mask. His neck seemed very long, already dotted with stubble. 

As usual, the folks in the outfield bleachers were tossing a giant beachball into the air. Bucky's distant look was from literally staring into the distance.

Belatedly, Steve remembered that this wasn't normal in any other park. They'd get in trouble if it landed on the field, and the ushers weren't exactly going to chase it from section to section. Bucky was rapt.

"Yeah," said Steve at last. His stomach flipped over. He ignored it as usual. 

Not thinking about things was a necessary skill for a baseball player in it for the long haul.

He missed the glance Peggy shot at him. 

"That what the ball looks like to you?" Bucky prodded. 

Then the next reliever arrived, and so did Miles and Luke, and Peggy was cutting through the chitchat to lay forth strategy, and it wasn't till they were jogging back for the ninth that what Bucky said registered.

The ball wasn't the size of a beachball. It was a dinner plate, spinning just the way Steve expected when he went the other way to flip it over the second baseman. Steve's stand-up double sparked the rally. Strap up, time to go. Go, go go.

Before shuffling into his lead, he chanced a look at the stands. Couldn't find the beachball; they were all dancing in the seats.

◇

Tony cornered him after the game. The team was hurrying out to beat the traffic, like everybody else.

"Cap!"

"I'm not racing you, Tony." Steve was pretty sure his insurance wouldn't cover it. Also, Natasha would kill him.

Tony caught him with a teeth-shaking half-hug. "I didn't know you and Barnes were roomies!"

Steve stared at him blankly. "We shared a room for the entire Arizona series—"

"No, no, no, Cap, buddy, pal. I caught it on the radio."

"Are you even allowed to do that during the game?" Steve jabbed an elbow towards his ribs. Not at full strength. Pitchers may not be made of glass, but Steve taking no chances. 

"I wasn't in the dugout, not that you noticed." Which wasn't the point. It dawned on Steve as soon as Tony's grin widened. "You know ole Scully! Barnes is a new player. We got the full biographical introduction. I mean we don't have his favorite type of produce, or the names of his cats, but it's only a matter of time."

"I wish you wouldn't wander off in the middle of a game," said Steve. He was half trying to cover... something. That, and trying to shake out of the near-headlock without breaking Tony in the process. 

"You're just jealous that Peggy lets me," which sounded dubious at best, "Don't change the subject! You should've told us you were tight _like that_."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Stark," said Steve. He'd feel guilty about that later, except Tony did release him. "Vin Scully does his research from publicly available information. Unless he gets it directly from the player. Either way, if you're going to be a nosy parker—"

"Of all the people in the whole world under thirty, including the actual Parkers, you are the only one who says 'nosy parker'—!"

"Then why is this a surprise to you?" Steve tried out a smug smile. "I thought you were smart."

It must've worked, because it got rid of Tony. 

◇

Steve passed by Luis and Scott having an animated discussion in front of the trolley mural, and then he wasn't passing by, he was dropping Brooklyn Dodgers history on their heads. After a while he realized they were staying because it was Cap talking, and apologized for keeping them. On the surface they seemed interested enough. Apparently they'd never seen this mural before. Steve told them about the hall with the Ebbets Field display. He curtailed the rest of the speech. If they'd heard about his history with Bucky, they took off without mentioning it.

At least he was averaging one post-game conversation that wasn't with the press.

It didn't seem right to leave the park quite yet. A full moon hung overhead, silver catching on the palm trees, and music piping in from the nearby high rises echoed in the bowl of the valley. He'd done this before; he knew exactly when the last of the stadium workers were supposed to clock out. He wasn't going to put anyone in the position of keeping the lights on for one errant 'big-ticket' player.

It was good for his muscles to stretch out in the night air, he reasoned. Less reasonably, he couldn't put a finger on the source of this ... disquiet. The game in Seattle was still going on, and he watched the scoreboard blink into another inning. He was pretty sure they kept those on until the last game of the day. Geez, how stuck up was he, if he thought that was just for him?

He was wandering the outfield, wondering if he could dash up to the press box to catch the beat reporters filing their stories, when he spotted movement at the gate usually reserved for the groundskeepers.

It was... an arm?

"Bucky?"

He started sprinting, skidding to a halt in front of the gate and doing that trick to loosen the latch. 

"_Freedom!_ I thought I'd be stuck there forever!" Bucky exclaimed. "There's nothing but pipes and wires and... there are tanks of chemicals! Are they preparing for war in there?"

Steve laughed. He shut the gate behind them. "You get flipped around? You didn't have that in Montreal?"

"I know how to navigate tunnels, you ass!" Bucky gesticulated. They fell in step, strolling off the warning track, into the grass. "Whatever that was, was not meant for regular civilian people."

"Every stadium looks like that on the inside."

"Ours— The one in Montreal is brand new! They have robots. I mean, this looks nice on the outside, but it's like Wrigley in there."

Robots? "The chemicals are all organic, by the way. For the landscaping and the bug control, I mean."

"So it is war, uh huh. I get it."

Steve bumped shoulders. "Can't believe you got lost. This is your home, now."

"For now," said Bucky.

Steve shot a glance across at him. It was weird to be in the majors, the Big Show, and have almost everyone around him playing on temporary terms. Not that anything was written in stone in the minors, or boarding buses to showcase games in the hopes a scout would take notice. (Or a routine play in the infield.) The thing was, at this highest level, there were the players on one-year deals, or sitting as trade bait... and there were the franchise stars like Steve. He was acutely aware that his household name meant he wasn't in the same boat as Bucky. He didn't have to worry about being whisked away at any moment. That was what all that work on his contract had been for, as Nat liked to remind him.

He didn't want to ask about Bucky's contract. Steve wondered about getting a handle on a whole new rotation of pitchers, overnight. He'd acclimated to whole new teams before, but his responsibilities to his teammates had been informal and off the field. And if Bucky didn't stick, he'd have to do it all over again. 

He was staring at Bucky. Though they'd walked this path a thousand times before, it was still amazing to be strolling across a baseball field, side by side. Bucky's hair was longer now, with a light sheen to it, and it was getting wavy, except for where helmets and caps had flattened a band around his head.

"...did you get your eyebrows waxed?"

Bucky smirked. "How did you know about eyebrow waxing?"

"That's not an answer," Steve said, a smile working its way out.

"I didn't come here to be interrogated, Rogers."

"I won't say anything," Steve said quickly. At most he'd be forced to do something embarrassing for charity if he violated the terms of this secret James club. It was just an amusing mental picture. Next he'd be wondering if Rhodey waxed his body hair before he suited up. "You stay after on purpose, or because you got yourself lost?" 

"Didn't get myself lost, fucker. I could ask you the same thing. Better yet, why'd you get here so damn early?"

They walked past a couple of groundskeepers doing tests on the grass, several yards away. Steve was feeling kind of awkward. "I like to check out the warning track."

"In your home park?" Bucky's smile seemed less teasing than fond. "More preparation overkill? You're a middle infielder. You live in the middle. Of the infield." Even if Nick was into defensive shifts, Peggy most certainly was not.

"Your home too," Steve insisted, even as he thought it was weird that Bucky wasn't counted as one of those, anymore. "Actually it was the kid. Miles. He got to a fly ball before the outfielders, and he was flying so fast he scaled the wall and ran the full length of the tarp." Which was never used in Dodgers Stadium. Rain delays didn't happen, much less downpours needing the tarp to be rolled out over the infield. Like most everything else, it was there for the advertising space. "Never took it for granted again."

Compelled, they veered off course towards the tarp, all wrapped up in its jumbo tube in team colors. They each gave it a shake, only stopping short of putting their shoes on it when the groundskeeper gave them the stink-eye. That, and the distant threat of a freak injury.

Okay, it had been terrifying to watch the kid take that tightrope at full speed. He loved Dodgers fans but they weren't great at catching full-grown men while they were clutching their Dodger Dogs.

"I should've come early, too," Bucky admitted at last. "The guys roped me into their handshake laboratory."

"I saw."

"I was sweating behind the dish. I kept thinking, 'I hope nobody hits a fucking pop-up.'" 

Steve had a terrible flash of Bucky ripping off his mask and running blind into an obstacle, tracking the ball in the unforgiving high sky of a California afternoon. The padded dugout walls didn't look like they'd hold a man of Bucky's size; at full speed he could tumble right over and who would catch him? 

He made himself look up to survey the cleaners up in the stands. "We've got at least twenty more minutes." It was pleasantly cool now, too.

They roamed around foul territory behind home plate. As though he'd picked up on Steve's thoughts, Bucky was meticulous in his survey. He walked the perimeter, back and forth, though Steve noticed he visually estimated the lengths instead of measuring strides. Idly Steve started to stretch as he walked. After a minute, Bucky mimicked him, though not the high toe-touches. They were probably too taxing after all that crouching.

The groundskeepers tossed them some looks as they walked back to their golf cart, near the gate that had nearly eaten Bucky.

Steve took in the panorama once more. For some reason the empty ballpark wasn't eerie. At least, Steve didn't think it was a liminal space. It was like the air of possibilities wafted up from the cradle of the valley. Suddenly he was hit with the picture of his teammates gawking at a part of the stadium they'd never seen before. If the team weren't in such a hurry to leave... but that was a topic for a team meeting. "Your crew show you around, Buck? You can't be getting lost in your own house. Nobody should."

"So my home-road splits don't suck?" But Bucky seemed obviously amused at Steve's earnest indignation. According to everyone else, that was a 'Cap' thing: throwing his shoulders back and looking offended by the world. "Okay, sure thing, Steve."

"Great!"

Steve sounded enthused. And he was. He could give Bucky the grand tour. Because he really did know Chavez Ravine like the back of his hand. He could show him—

"So, Rogers, pop quiz. How do you beat traffic in this place?"

Steve blinked. Another echo of his thoughts; maybe he was getting predictable, too. "Uh, you get here early. Or hire someone to drive you." He didn't mention that Tony was probably bribing his way out of speeding tickets. Maybe as they spoke.

"What!" 

"It's the geography," Steve shrugged.

"Public transportation?"

"They're working on it," said Steve defensively.

"But not to get here by gametime."

"Unless you get here early."

Which was pretty much Population: Steve Rogers. He wasn't going to mention that part.

Bucky folded his leg towards the small of his back, to stretch his hamstring. "You're sucking at this test."

Steve raised the opposite leg, leaning towards him. "I am amazing at tests."

The remaining lights winked off and on, once. Chagrined, Steve waved in the direction of the control booth.

Bucky laughed. "Amazing at somethin', all right. C'mon. Save it for tomorrow. Bedtime for middle infielders." 

They hurried to the dugout.

"Hey, Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"It was a dinner plate."

Bucky's smiled curled up. Somehow he knew exactly what he was talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know where the trolley mural is, only that it exists. Alert fans will notice that Chavez Ravine and the surrounding Elysian Park is not quite the same as in our universe.
> 
> _My So-Called Life_ was groundbreaking and yet also teen-soap-drama banal, but the one scene that always stuck with me was when the protagonist thinks Jordan Catalano has a deep, dreamy gaze, while in fact he's staring at the ceiling so he can apply eyedrops. Given the realities of time, space, and wikipedia, that's like multiple folds of irony, cough cough. Anyway, I never forgot it, I dare you to unpack that image. The nineteen-nineties totally dropped some timeless metaphors about love.
> 
> Two sections that look normal to baseball fans and looks like lorem ipsum gibberish to newbies. Pitching first. The thing about having high-velocity pitches, aka fastballs, is there's a Big Leagues' worth of hitters who can time them ("catching up to the fastball"). So the art of pitching is either perfecting unhittable stuff and/or developing secondary pitches. Because a mix of pitches means waiting on ("sitting on") fastballs won't always work. Unexpected! Elite pitchers? All their pitches are "filthy". Straight lines get hit; movement is the aim, like a full speed fakeout in other sports. Breaking pitches are spun so to the batter sees it at one level, and it swoops down in an arc, or "breaks" to another level. They could land so low, or even so short of the plate that they bounce in the dirt, and the catcher has to go pouncing after them or the ball gets away, aka a wild pitch (scored the pitcher's fault) or a passed ball (scored the catcher's fault).
> 
> As for batting. "Going the other way" has to do with how batting works — you'd expect a right-hander (swinging counterclockwise) to hit the ball to the left. Right? Going the other way is sorta flicking the ball to the right instead. Unexpected! Somewhat. This also becomes goes opposite, which becomes goes oppo, which becomes an oppo taco. Yes, like the food.
> 
> A double is hitting a ball well enough to get to second base instead of just the first one. Whereas a double-switch is tapping out two players from the field for the ones on the bench, instead of the usual single player. This alters the lineup for the following inning of offense ("their half" of the inning, btw). Currently about half of casual baseball fans have no clue how this strategy operates in practice, because how defense is changed to offense of the future??? This is some National League magic. Hah! In this universe, no one knows to miss this shit. Boom. P.S. Once a player exits an official game, they can't come back to play (exhibition games with short benches, aka not enough back-up players, might operate differently). If they're able, they can hang in the dugout.
> 
> Yes, I cruelly dropped all these 'double' terms on purpose. The rest of them, like a lot of baseball lingo, are exactly as they sound like. A squibber bounces slow in the infield. Barreling up is the barrel of the bat lining up perfectly to hit the baseball on the sweet spot. Home-road splits are a player's stats in their own park vs. as a visitor. The dish is another term for... home plate.
> 
> And the groundskeepers manually roll out the tarp over the infield (the diamond) if it starts to rain. Dodger Stadium nearly had an underground tarp (see walteromalley dot com). They probably don't use automatic tarp rollers anymore because of that one time it ate a player. It was a terrible day. Content warning, I'm not kidding.


	6. Blasts from the Past | Vs Colorado Rockies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say, I didn't anticipate Steve being such a ball of anxiety? (He's making me anxious. Be gentle.) I'm only the humble author but I think if he can't define the emotion, he defaults to circular fretting. 
> 
> A chapter so long it's almost its own story, brimming with explained and unexplained history.

#### Top Frame: The Tour

When tomorrow arrived, Thor requested an extra bullpen session, to which he cheerfully invited everyone, including some of his... posse? Cadre? Even Luis showed up early to watch, and it was his day to start. There was apparently some back-and-forth about who would catch Thor (it turned out to be Rhodey). Steve kept his head down and got in some batting practice until Phil kicked him out, and then roped Miles and a couple of the kids into fielding drills. 

Come gametime, Bucky hung out at the dugout railing, simultaneously fixated on the game like he was on a scouting assignment, and conferring with Thor about his adjustments. Steve ended up going one-for-three, to his annoyance. When Bucky sat down next to him, he expected a report on his swing. Instead, around a mouthful of seeds, Bucky mumbled, "On for tomorrow?"

"Uh. Yeah. Yes, of course!"

"'Yes, of course!'" parroted Bucky, but he was smirked and spit-fired a seed husk across the aisle into the trash can.

(Clint said "Niiiice," and he and Bucky got to shooting the breeze.)

Steve reminded himself that Bucky had to be busy. All the prospects that hadn't come along on the road trip, their own video facilities, their top secret notebooks: it was all here in their facilities. Rhodey was helping, but out on the field, he was on his own.

In what felt like no time at all, they were back at the stadium at noon. It was a day game today, so that wasn't weird, right? Steve had a grand plan in his head. They met at the upper lot, where the fans lined up for the cheap seats. Bucky was wearing a t-shirt printed with a question in French, and an expression identical to the one he'd worn at that roadside stop on their way to Williamsport when they'd taken in a crooked line of sleeper cars painted up as someone's front yard folk art. 

Steve wanted to ask him read off his shirt's slogan, except Bucky leaned back to scrutinize his own sleeveless _Bleed Dodger Blue_ shirt, and said, "You gonna flash your all-American guns all day, or are you gonna put on a show?"

It sounded like a challenge. Steve had stared down pitchers fit to spit nails and with filthy stuff to back it up, and when it came to Bucky he folded like a bad hand. Never mind that this was all his idea. He never could resist Bucky's dares. 

Bucky gave him his phone and made him take pictures with every retired player's number. Bucky could get stuck on the minutiae, like baseball card stats and uniform numbers. He could go on and on about uniform numbers, sometimes Steve heard him in his dreams. Steve didn't rag on him for hugging their version of monuments. Even as Bucky told him to hold the camera up, higher Rogers, don't cut off any of my limbs. (Besides, his phone looked like a phone, something which Steve had kinda-sorta been afraid to request from Natasha, because the team president had presented him with his 'smartphone'. Bucky's had buttons. All labeled in French.) 

Then Bucky made him pose with the '1'. Naturally. Complete with shouted directions to make him appear bigger than the oversized number. Never mind that Steve had been to brunch quite a few times with the man's widow. He hoped no one was taking pictures of them taking pictures, the sort of thing that happened all the time around here.

Before Bucky could convince him to scale the Dodger Dog sculpture, Steve distracted him with a view of the Hollywood sign, several hills over. "You can actually see through the smog these days," Steve said.

Bucky laughed. Then he nudged Steve. "Hey, the smog's not a problem?"

It took a second before Steve realized he was talking about his respiratory issues. "Nah. We figured out a regimen." That, and Steve had spoken to the Council about air pollution standards. And written a letter, too, on his fancy stationery. "...are you sniffing me?"

Unapologetic, Bucky told him he was checking for sunscreen. Steve rolled his eyes.

Bucky seemed duly impressed by the time capsule, and the hidden Japanese garden — Tony had pushed to get it restored after he'd signed on — but he was itching to descend into the stadium proper. He stopped at the brink, the top of the stairs, and Steve felt a thrill as he took in the vista sweeping down the bowl, the line of palm trees and the hodgepodge of Elysian Park's architecture, then beyond to the San Gabriel Mountains.

Steve lead him through the blue seats. Every section went through an inspection. This, Steve could do. Explaining that the bleachers under the wavelike roofs were called pavilions. Where the shadows fell over home plate, and at exactly what time, and roughly which innings, how the stadium had been oriented with that in mind. The field's perfect, visually pleasing symmetry that played as fairly as possible. That centerfield was marked as 395 feet, yet was actually farther away. He talked about the marine layer, how it was even a bigger deal in San Francisco. 

Bucky halted at every new area, licked his fingertip, and tested the wind. Even by the two chairs in the right field bleachers, though he turned around to face home, where Gibson had limp-trotted around the bases. He did it inside the open-air pressbox, too. The only rise Steve could get out of him was from inviting him to touch Vin's chair. "We're in his pressbox! That's his chair!" Bucky wouldn't even go near it.

Otherwise he ribbed Steve about everything. "Did I take a wrong turn and end up in Disneyland?" "Is this a blowup Statue of Liberty? Are these seats reserved for Cap fans?" "Where are all the elevators? Do you hate elevators?" "How did I not noticed this torture device? Are the relievers into chains and shit?"

Steve responded by jumping for the rings hanging from the awning, deftly pulling up into a straddle planche. Nice and easy. Bucky tried to tickle him. Steve narrowly avoided swinging down and kicking him in the chest. Bucky stuck him on the cheekbone with spit-wet fingers.

Well past time to retreat to the tunnels. With a flourish, Steve pointed out the directional signs on the walls in cheerful handwritten script, repainted fresh every season. Bucky stuck his tongue out at him, and asked him where the cats were. What cats? What cats, Rogers, every park has cats. Steve wanted to say that all he knew about were the bees. Was that too weird? 

It was late enough that they ran into other human beings. The clubbies only looked at them to note that there were two of them now. Steve smiled at everybody and introduced Bucky. He got the feeling half the principals knew each other already, but as usual no one outside the roster (and Natasha) was going to correct him.

He was too muddled to ask the clubbies about the cats.

Steve _had_ a grand plan. Bucky wasn't interested in the trophy hall. Not that he didn't think they were important. He walked past every World Series trophy and the stack of ceremonial bats, and rattled off the years. Which wasn't surprising — they'd memorized those together ages ago, had even gotten to listen to some of the radio calls of those games. Then he named off all the winners of each Gold Glove. All without looking. 

"Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers..."

"Bucky!"

"Where's Kenesaw Mountain and where'd it land? These the dinner plates you were talking about?"

"It's a plaque. And MVP is too easy, you ass." 

"For some people." Bucky grinned.

"Shut up."

Bucky gave it a rest. "This is kind of like my high school's entrance hall," he said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, it is a little like my high school's trophy case. Except stretched out." By a lot. It occurred to Steve that there was a kind of sleek feel to everything, a space age capsule underlined with neon, transplanted straight out of mid-century and plunked down into theirs. The perky enthusiasm did come off as kind of... fake. Steve knew better than anyone how much of that was some insincere apology for ripping the team out of Brooklyn. At the same time, there was a superficial sheen to just about everything in Los Angeles. That, and people were always getting on Steve for his extreme brand of earnestness, trying to scratch the surface to see if it was cosmetic, and, really, Steve wanted to defend one's right to make a baseball game a happy thing. A happy place.

Steve wondered what Bucky thought of this old museum piece. He'd never been to Montreal's new stadium, which he'd heard was actually futuristic, instead of a nostalgic mirage of the future. He nearly asked.

Then they got to the Ebbets Field section. 

They did know this part by heart. Bucky marveled at the artifacts, hands hovering over them like he was warming them over a fire. They read the captions aloud, and pointed and gawked like kids on a field trip, and piece by piece they talked in low voices of the ghosts of New York City. 

Almost an hour later, Steve guided them to the wide gallery overlooking the training room. A staffer was washing the long windows, the logos hand-lettered as though enticing patrons into a novelty emporium full of grown-ups sweating and heaving their way into making magic on green grass and fresh dirt.

◇

Bucky was outraged by the vending machines.

"This is what you call _food_?" He pressed his nose to the glass.

Steve chuckled. "That is food."

"This is goat feed."

"It's good for horses too. Horses are fast."

Bucky just looked at him. "So are greyhounds."

"Don't stick your arm in there," Steve warned. At Bucky's outraged huff, Steve nodded at Clint.

Bucky made a 'huh' sound. Of course he'd heard all about how Clint could get himself injured. The whole league had. Probably including the one time that hadn't made the papers. Steve didn't mention his fear that the sliding gate might've taken a chunk out of Bucky, earlier.

"Why would I want to," he was scowling a little. "This is what passes for snacks?"

"It's good for you!"

"Says you!"

"Says Pepper. She's the nutritionist."

"You have a nutritionist? I mean, for the team."

"You get her too," said Steve. "What did they feed you up north? Poutine?"

"YES."

"Que asco!" That was Hector.

"It is not!" Bucky yelled over his shoulder.

"Hey, it's not so bad," said Luis. "It's like mixing asadero on dirty rice."

"I'll get you a protein bar," said Steve. He started to punch in a number.

"What about the gravy?" complained Hector.

"Never mind the gravy, people still eat fries?"

Two separate skirmishes broke out over gravy and fries. Clint was trying to save his home stand by clapping hands over his older kids' ears, and he didn't have enough hands for that. "Vegetables are your friend," he was insisting.

Steve handed Bucky the protein bar.

Bucky ripped it open with his teeth. "Thanks for sharing your ration."

"I get half rations," Steve prevaricated. Actually he needed a third more than average, on account of his metabolism. Bucky just nudged him, making a show of licking up stray crumbles.

"How's the tour going, Bucky?" Jimmy yelled over the din.

Somehow it felt odd to hear someone else call Bucky by name. Bucky replied, "The locker rooms look like jail holding cells."

Several veterans laughed. "Dude, you should've seen the old locker rooms!"

"Like the inside of a prison transport bus."

"We were gonna make the visitors keep the old ones."

"Blame the big contracts for hogging the construction dollars, wasn't that the line?"

A few eyes drifted to Steve, like the renovation had included his contract dollars written in neon above his head. 

"Don't talk about Stark like that," Steve said, hands in his pockets. He had been planning to tell Bucky about the stadium revamp, how they'd carved out more of the mountain like a basement under the basement. A sub-basement? As he turned to check the lineup, he caught Bucky retreating a step in the corner of his eye. Like he'd sprung up, big guns at the ready.

Once the pre-game spread materialized at the tables, Bucky resumed his hangdog routine. Some players brought containers from home (though frowned upon, no one was going to argue with a spouse or parent preparing actual home cooking, least of all Pepper Potts.) 

Bucky gazed at his plate. There were little portion control pictures on the bottom; it did look a bit cartoonish. "All that health food out there, it's in here too? I thought it was some L.A. fad."

"It's good for you," Steve insisted.

Steve... did feel bad. They'd shared two-liter bottles of root beer, split family sized bags of fried pork rinds, they'd stuffed a thermos full of candy bars to keep them from melting should the bus's air conditioning break down. "You could talk to Pepper. She's real nice. Her vegan cheese is amazing."

"It's like I don't even know you," said Bucky mournfully.

Steve pouted. 

After the game, it was all he could do to get out of treatment quick and hastily convey Bucky to the fish taco guy. They lucked out that everyone else was too busy trying to escape the parking lot to line up for tacos. Bucky had to eat it in the car, but that would have to do. (Steve went back inside because he wasn't eating tacos on his bike, or in the parking lot, and he had to prevail on the remaining clubbies for a plastic container.)

◇⚾◇⚾◇

#### Bottom Frame: This Sunday

In the wee hours of the morning, Steve was wide awake and looking up the words on Bucky's shirt. It took him twenty minutes to figure out how to do accents on the keyboard.

He stared at the screen until its power saver switched it off. "'Give me your coordinates,'" he repeated into the blackout dark. 

He tossed and turned, wondering if he should ask Bucky what that meant to him.

Hours later, he went over the probable pitcher's report one more time. Frowning. Some delivery came to the door, and he let them in absently, told them about the large bill under the glove on the entry alcove which was earmarked for tips. Nat must've briefed them, because there was no flabbergasted reaction. Steve kept reading.

He rode to the ballpark nursing a diaphanous unease about Bucky. Which was _silly_. Bucky was a _veteran_. A hardcore baseball rat. He could play anywhere, with any team. Get the job done no matter what. Steve simply... wanted him to love the Dodgers like he did? Something like that. It didn't help that he couldn't remember how Bucky had taken it, back when Steve was a gushing, overeager rookie. Steve was the one with the signed Sandy Koufax card. He got into arguments with anyone who couldn't spell Orel Hershiser. One summer he spent telling anyone who would listen that he was named after Steve Garvey. (Which could be true. Steve would never know.)

Bucky must've spent all that time humoring him.

Now Bucky had put in his time as a journeyman. Steve had been tempted to pick his brain about the Rockies lineup, except it had been an age since he'd worn their jersey, and Steve wasn't sure of what he thought of the organization. They were a contending club when they got their hires right, but given how Bucky had spent his time there... 

It was the reason he wore a mouthguard — jaw squared with the constant tension of biting down — after he'd caught a bat to the face on the backswing. Helmets could only do so much. That offseason lost to surgery hadn't even been the worst of it. Steve hadn't wanted to ask. He hadn't even watched the replay, the way Bucky had fallen to the ground.

Under the sun beating down, Steve thought he should've asked anyway.

Steve thought he'd lost track of time when he pulled into the players' lot to find it more than half full.

Then the fish taco guy gave him the stink-eye. Not wanting to anger his source of fish tacos, and fired with desperation to learn the guy's name, Steve veered off course to see if he could do anything.

"Hi there! Say, all this time, I never caught your—" was as far as Steve got.

The fish taco guy snapped, "Were those apology tacos?"

Steve was taken aback.

"Yesterday," the fish taco guy prompted. He kept his eyes on Steve even as he chopped greens into little tiny slivers.

"No?"

"You looked guilty."

The other vendors and most of the parking lot valets were definitely listening in. He hoped this was out of earshot of the autograph hounds.

"I wasn't? I don't think."

"There is a special recipe for apology tacos. They require advance notice." He narrowed his eyes. "Unless you want to order them in secret. Perhaps you need a secret sign to signal for them."

Today was not the day he was going to learn this guy's name. "Maybe I could... thumb my nose twice?" 

Unimpressed was the fish taco guy. "That is unsanitary."

Steve was sidestepping away. "I'll... I'll think of something else! Sorry!" 

Geez, he was already the least cool person in L.A. That was the furthest thing from smooth. Hopefully Phil would let him run an extra circuit to burn off whatever was flipping over in his stomach.

◇

Whatever was eating at him flew off into the sun-smeared smog when the clubhouse doors swung open to a cart full of pink bats.

Oh. 

"It's Sunday?" Steve blurted out. 

It was obvious testimony to his veteran status that nobody laughed.

"Rogers," Peggy sighed. Steve whirled around, trying not to look, well, _guilty_. "It's a rare privilege to ignore me while I'm speaking, in your case permitted only because I assume that you're already privy to the information." 

"Is there anything different on the schedule?" Oh good God, they might put some tribute up on a big screen. Though surely Nat would tell him before she signed off on that.

Peggy gave him a kind smile, and a pat on cheek, which was about a million times worse than yelling. "I'm sure there are extra wristbands about." She'd even stained her lips pink; on gamedays she usually went with colorless lip balm.

No wonder Natasha had sent begonias that morning. He hadn't even looked at the note. Nat was always surprising him with weird deliveries, how was he supposed to know?

It was all he could do to get into his pre-game routine. He stared into his locker. When Bucky came up, he didn't comment on whatever look was on Steve's face. "Uh," Bucky said. "Do you wanna talk to Winnie?"

Steve blinked at him. "Your mom?"

Given the circumstances, it wasn't as funny as the hundreds of 'your mom' jokes their varsity team had burned through. Back when they were young and stupid.

Bucky looked unbearably awkward. Steve felt awkward looking at him, and that was without the question truly sinking in. 

An expensive smartphone with a screen the size of his glove appeared in front of Steve. "She wanted to come, but with the trade and all, her and Becca already locked in their plans, and... you don't have to. Seriously. Don't sweat it, she'll be pretty happy with a note if you're feeling—"

Guilty. "I haven't talked to her in ages." Steve shook himself. "No, I mean, sure. Yes! I'd love to talk to your mom. I just don't know what to say," he admitted.

Bucky winced. "Look, I haven't made the call yet. It's just that I have to make it now, or they'll be in the spa or something if I leave it for later."

"Let me, uh," Steve said. "I mean, I've talked to your mom with my jock on—"

"But you'd just hurled all over my shoes," said Bucky. 

They stared at each other. This wasn't getting any less awkward. At least the feeling seemed mutual.

"Young Cap hit the party scene that hard, Buckaroo?" Tony called. He had tessellated pink glitter kisses on his stirrup-socks.

"Yeah, the stomach flu was totes awesome," Steve said automatically. "And don't call him that." Before Tony could get wound up, Steve added, "You have to approve that with the Jameses."

"Rogers knows the rules!" Rhodey crowed. He'd definitely called his mom. 

And probably shared that phone call with Tony. That partially decided it for Steve. Now that the opportunity was flashing in front of him, he did want to talk to Winnie. 

"Except for the part where he spills it to the entire team," said Monty.

"What, you mean your Jimjams thing?" asked Clint. "Was I not supposed to know about that? Yeah buddy," he said to his son, "How about we let Ms Pepper make the pancake, so we don't do food poisoning this year? Huh?"

"Give him a break," someone said, and they weren't talking about the mini Hawkeye.

Steve steeled himself. Clenched up. "Dial, I'll be presentable by the time she gets through the—"

"—embarrassing shit, right. I'll be," Bucky gestured to the storage room which they all used as the towel locker. "'Presentable' like you'll wear shorts too?" was his parting shot.

"Fuck you, Barnes," Steve said on automatic. 

"Is that even the correct use of 'totes'," Tony was saying. "Spiderkid, weigh in."

"I'm not from Cali, _dude_," Morales snapped back. 

"We gotta teach you how to surf," said Rhodey.

Steve was too nervous to butt into that one. He passed Luis, who was describing the greatest gift basket in the entire world, which was apparently for his... aunt? Grandmother. _Oh my God._

Steve swarmed into his undershirt and uniform pants, and tried not to think around the frying pan that was his face. 

Tony was so loud. "What are you still doing here, Platypus...? You going to take her surfing, oh I get it!" 

Steve waited in the towel room and tried to slow his breathing. Begonias had been his mom's favorite. Natasha who knew everything did know that. Bucky knew that. It occurred to Steve that Winifred Barnes knew that too.

"...know it's been a while, but you know how he is," Bucky was whispering not-very-quietly into his genuine telephone. "Do me a favor and sit on Becca."

Somehow it had great reception. "Here I am doing favors for you. Shouldn't it be the other way around, Snugbug?" 

Among the hills of used towels, Bucky took a cleansing inhalation of guy-sweat and high-end cologne. "I am graciously giving you an embarrassment pass because it is Your Day, o beautiful and witty mom of mine."

Steve shrugged at him. A smile played at his lips. Winnie sounded the same. 

"You're welcome for all the years of catching your four-seamers, and that time I rented a backhoe to build a mound and almost dug into the water main."

Another voice came on the line, muffled. "I did tell you to call the utilities!"

"Okay," said Winnie imperiously, "I am now hereby banishing your sister, she's annoying me too. Meet me downstairs, Beetjuice."

"Mom!" Becca shrieked.

"It's beets because you're sweet!" All three of them chorused.

Steve suddenly felt a pang of Something wriggle from his throat and prickle behind his eyes. He found himself reaching up for the phone.

"Here's Steve," Bucky said, solemnly.

Without thinking, Steve caught on Bucky's sleeve. And held on. "Hello, Winnie."

"I would say you never write, you never call," said Winnie mildly. 

"We should get together," Steve murmured. He adjusted his grip on Bucky's phone.

"That would be lovely, Steve. I know how the schedules are, how about I call your agent and we'll figure something out."

"Nat... Natasha?"

"Yes," Winnie said a little more severely. "She was very candid about how she was the one sending the birthday greetings."

"I'm—"

"Don't be sorry, Steve," Winnie said. "This is what she would've wanted. She wouldn't have chased all your pop flies, all those years, or put you on those buses to get you in front of the scouts... Steve, you're making her happy. Just be you, okay?"

"I forgot about Mother's Day," Steve blurted out.

Winifred Barnes laughed like she'd snorted a fruity drink out her nose. 

"Mom!" Bucky exclaimed, with a nervous glance at Steve.

"Fuck, that's great. I mean, not great, that's... that's classic, kiddo," Winnie snorted. "Look, you and I know Sarah hated the holidays. It was another excuse—"

"—for stupid people to get even stupider and land in urgent care," finished Steve. The lump in his throat wasn't getting any smaller. "Yeah."

Sarah Rogers didn't need a day to remember her. They knew what she did, and what she said.

"Play hard, play right," Winnie said. "Watch each other's backs," she added.

"Okay," was all Steve could say.

In the next room, someone was saying, "—put her name on my shoes—"

"Good talk," Winnie said after a moment.

"Thank you, Mrs. Barnes," Steve managed.

Another snort. "Never change, kiddo. Make me proud, Snugbug!" she said to Bucky. "Or there'll be no dinner for you at the shack!"

"Mother," said Bucky, retaking the phone. Steve was still holding his sleeve, when he planted a hand on his hip, scolding. "Happy Your Day, don't drown in the mud bath."

"That's why I brought Becca. Love you!" 

The call ended. 

They looked at each other. They were still standing close, Steve anxiously plucking at the fabric of Bucky's shirt. 

Bucky opened his mouth. "I can't believe you told her you forgot. You are never living that down for the rest of your life."

"Stuff socks in it," said Steve shakily, and Bucky moved his arm, and Steve followed into a back-clapping hug until the tightness in his eyes loosened up and he could breathe nasty locker room air again.

When they emerged, Scott was regaling everyone with the amazing gift he'd helped his daughter put together for his _ex-wife_.

Steve couldn't wait to get on the field.

◇

Bucky grabbed his wrist. Covering the pink wristband. 

"Paint me!" he said.

There was a frantic gleam under all the eyeblack, and no wonder. They were already lining up for first pitches. A national guardsman in full camo was sneaking a side-hug on his mom. Jason, the tight-lipped bench coach who shadowed Peggy everywhere, glanced up from his clipboard, though he seemed less worried than bemused, brow quirking up.

Bucky pulled the Stand Up 2 Cancer placard out of Steve's hands, and raised a bottle of iridescent pink nail polish. 

"Fuck," said Steve. "Put a towel on your lap." He caught it and started shaking.

"It's high school all over again."

"Ewww."

"If you spill, we'll pass it off as part of the color scheme." The only alteration to Bucky's gear was a swoop of pink stars on the shoulder pads. 

"You're such a slob," Steve groused, hastily folding Bucky's hands on his palm and trying to follow the roughened lines of his nails.

With his free hand, Bucky grabbed a marker and finished filling out Steve's placard. He stuffed it in Steve's backpocket, and then it was time to take the field.

◇

The game itself wasn't quite the escape Steve had secretly hoped for.

Rhodey had supposedly been Dum-Dum's backup. Everybody knew he was actually Tony Stark's personal catcher. Privately Steve turned his nose up at the very idea of a personal catcher. Tony had good stuff, fiddled with his pitches more than most healthy starters, served up a few too many flyballs sometimes, but that rarely mattered when the marine layer was on their side. Mostly they subtly dropped his turn in places like, well, Colorado.

And they usually paired Rhodey with Tony. Steve thought he was a good pitcher; why did he need this specific battery? Tony didn't even throw a knuckleball (though not for lack of trying, according to Tony.) Whatever. Tony was wild like a bullpen pitcher. Steve didn't mind how he got results on the field, even if he added an extra hip wiggle whenever Steve set up directly behind him. 

In any case, Rhodey had problems with his legs (not the knees), to be managed by easing off from the wear-and-tear of daily catching. No one was surprised they'd acquired Bucky instead of promoting from within. Steve had been vaguely nervous about it— infielders barely had a hierarchy, they were so interchangeable, but veteran catchers were practically field managers — until he'd caught a glimpse of them comparing PT exercises. Otherwise, Rhodey had a cushy contract, and off the field he practically ran the video room, and would probably interview for managerial positions as soon as Tony let him out of his clutches. He hadn't stayed on just to give Dum-Dum a break. He'd earned his own time off.

(Today could be Tony's influence at play. Mrs. Rhodes treated Tony like one of her own.)

So it shook out that Bucky's first game catching Tony Stark was in front of the home crowd, against a team that Tony barely saw during the season, and that on top of it all, represented one of the worst phases of Bucky's life. On Mother's Day.

The pink and purple even looked good on the Rockies.

And since everyone was playing for their moms, they were all swinging from their shoetops. There was no room for butterflies with a game to play. By the time everyone formed up for the live PSA, Steve was jolted out of his game-face to find that he was actually having a decent night at the plate. Good thing, too, because Tony was struggling on the mound. They were clearly leaving him in the game as long as the score stayed close. Stark was getting more and more wound up the more they skied the ball off his heaters, wiping sweat off his brow like he was stuck in a hotbox.

The Rockies were used to homers, but it was galling to serve one up to the pitcher.

Bucky called for time-out. Steve was a little slow to get to the mound, by which time Tony was already fiddling with the rosin bag like it was a hand grenade. Into the glove he was muttering: "...great, now let's have Cap over for the 'Yell At Tony' fest."

Though his mask was up, mouthguard lolling to the side, Bucky's glove was over his face, and his voice was pitched lower than usual. (Or maybe Steve was just used to Bucky speaking up for his benefit.) "We're not ganging up on you. I'm just sayin' we could stand to take a few grounders." His gaze flicked to Steve, who in turn relayed a loaded look to Miles.

Tony's eyes flashed. The rosin bag dropped to the ground with a splat. "I'll call my own damn game," he snapped into the glove. Meeting over.

Bucky looked briefly alarmed. Steve murmured, "We got your back," in Tony's direction, and waited till Tony had his back to them to nod reassuringly at Bucky. 

That inning lasted for-fucking-ever. They squeaked out of it with only one run's damage. Then Luke bailed them all out by making mincemeat of their best reliever with a lengthy battle—fouling off one ball after another, pushing the pitch-count up—culminating with a three-run homer that nearly made the parking lot. A pinch-hitter came up for Tony, though. His night was through.

Steve found Bucky near the far end of the bench, a decent distance from the camera well. "I thought you were getting along with Tony," he whispered.

"I stopped calling his favorite pitch," Bucky admitted quietly. He wiggled his index finger unconsciously, still painted a shiny pink. "Shook me off when the pitcher came up, and I think their dugout told him to sit on it."

All of a sudden they could've been whispering in the back of Winnie's minivan, waiting for Steve's ride home. Steve bent close, and Bucky met him halfway. "Tony's always going for the perfect game. Then once it's gone, there's you calling the shots... Maybe he knows it's your thing."

"My thing?" At Steve's half-hearted gesture at the 'enemy' in the opposing dugout, Bucky raised a brow, like it hadn't even occurred to him to get a piece of the Rockies, given... okay. Okay, maybe that was Steve projecting. He waited for Steve to reload on seeds. "Steve. Even if they did fuck up my swing, which is debatable, smacking them down's no more satisfying than any other team."

"Oh. Makes sense. I mean, Tony, he's. He doesn't want to let _you_ down. That's what I mean by perfect. His game plan, too."

Bucky sat up, and turned a little, smearing some of his eyeblack on Steve's cheek. "His dad?"

Which was a fair guess. Everybody knew about Howard Stark.

Steve shook his head, bumping his nose on Bucky's nine o'clock shadow. "His _mom_ taught him that grip."

It was almost like Bucky was rearing back, though actually he was getting a better look at Steve's face. He had the same look on his face as inside the traincar sculpture when the roof ladder banged out of the ceiling — Steve had nearly had an asthma attack and Bucky... well, he was years away from growing stubble, but Steve would know that look anywhere, one hand on the rusted rung almost despite himself. 

Except it was him he was looking at, like Steve had knocked him over. "Rogers," he said. "Everybody but you, huh."

◇

It wasn't till Steve was changing that he found the folded placard in his back pocket. 'Sarah Rogers' in Bucky's handwriting. Someone watching the broadcast might spot that it wasn't Steve who'd written it.

It was still weird to kick up a fuss about her. That was...

Steve turned around, and somehow Bucky was there, chipped pink nails doing up a graphic printed button-up. "She was the same way," Steve told him, and Bucky smiled that old familiar smile. He did get it. That was just how they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUMP: Back to 1 ◇ Back to 2
> 
> Note: Ron Darling just said pitchers watching each other's bullpens is a scam. I'm dying. Sounds fake!! hahaha. He did credit the Cardinals for that one. Same network, weeks later, John Smoltz credits those bullpen sessions with pinpointing that he was tipping pitches, aka giving away which pitch he was ready to throw. Smoltzy was with the Cards for like, five minutes at the end of his Hall of Fame career. ♦ Bucky's t-shirt is merely a Québécois phrase that basically means... give me your digits. (Steve at this point does not. Steve!!) Sadly online translators will probably not pick up that this is peculiar to Quebec, and ironically, the phrase is only peculiar in English. 
> 
> Oh my gosh the marine layer. Haha, I don't know why it makes me laugh. Physics time! The wind blowing in at Wrigley (that'd be Chicago, not far from one of the largest lake/inland seas in the world) is pretty easy to grasp. The marine layer is the moist, dense, humid air shifting in from the ocean on West Coast afternoons. Denser air means lazy flyballs (meaning with not much velocity) can wander back inside the walls of the park. Contrast this with Colorado, where at altitude, routine flyballs turn into bombs; the baseballs there are put into humidors, like cigars! And then the pitchers complain they're not mudded right (someone's job is to rub special dirt on baseballs, for real, to aid in grip), and it's all very persnickety. 
> 
> Dodgers retired number one belongs to Pee Wee Reese. Ya get the picture. His widow Dorothy has since passed away; she's alive at the time of this fic. Steve doesn't admit it to many people (Nat probably knows): that's why his own number is eleven. ◇ The home run hit by Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series is consistently in everyone's top three baseball moments ever, all the more boggling that it happened in a lot of our lifetimes (though IMO 2011 is still the most inexplicable postseason in whole). Apparently the seats where the ball landed are now marked, and part of some pricey seating package, natch. ◇ Kenesaw Mountain Landis was a commissioner of baseball back when the Baseball Writers Association of America took over voting for the MVP award (in each league). His name's on the plaque. Before that, there were a bunch of medals and other stuff, notably to Brooklyn Dodger Dazzy Vance. ◇ There is no blowup Statue of Liberty (yet, I'm not putting it past fans). It's mostly to spotlight the growing trend to dedicate sections to star players, either by management, the fans, or both. Big Mac Land still exists in Busch Stadium despite it not being the same park (and the obvious controversy). Felix Hernandez got his King's Court on his starts in Seattle. Aaron Judge gets his own Judge's Chambers in Yankees Stadium. ◇ In this universe, there are no fucking strobe lights in MLB anywhere. ◇ Not mentioned is the ongoing saga of the scoreboards ... often ('tis illegal!) genericized as Jumbotrons™. ◇ As for the home of Dodger baseball, it looks like Disneyland for a reason; its design aesthetic was inspired by Tomorrowland. Apparently there's no word on its current, actual max. attendance, but for sure at 56,000 its capacity is the largest in the majors.
> 
> Catchers don't wear mouthguards, they need to rip their masks off quick. ◇ I can't confirm, but I'm pretty sure "stuff" was originally "shit", like good shit, because it's filthy... which got cleaned up for broadcast. It's basically a pitcher's mojo; "has good stuff" means they're on that day. ◇ Four-seam fastball. You know how seams make a horseshoe around the sphere? Roll it around, visually. Four seams describes how a pitcher grips = drag in the air = spin of ball = the kind of pitch. The other common fastball is two-seam. ◇ A pop fly = pop-up + fly ball aka not a ground ball. Think high arc. ◇ The back slope of pitchers' mounds may have a mud-scraper (I wouldn't be surprised if that's actually called a Hrabosky), and a rosin bag: a white bag of sticky rosin to better one's grip without messing with the ball itself. Batters also use rosin; there are rules on how far up the bat handle it can go! Basically rosin vs. sweaty hands. The dirt art behind the mound is more recent, mostly commemorations finger-scrawled by pitchers; some grounds crews even stamp out official logos. ◇ Aforementioned walteromalley dot com has more, plus a site called andrewclem dot com. As with all outside links — including charities! — mentions are not necessarily endorsements, navigate at your own risk.


	7. On Va Voir | @ Pittsburgh Pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all (says 2019 me), MLB using the Avengers theme as the home-team intro music? I have Mixed Feelings. Secondly, the whole narrative of the 'humanization' of robot-perfect Stephen Strasburg is basically this fic's sharksona. When are cinnamon rolls sandwiches? When it's a manly male hug sandwich that goes on f o r e v e r. (Watch it in real life, there are none of those planned for this fic.) Sadly the sheen wears off after the series, so keep your scales on and just stop viewing there? 
> 
> Thank you for your patience, fishies. This one delayed the whole fic the most (since June???) It turns out, serendipitously, the wait happened for a Reason: new Wednesday spoiler panels came out about the character and I had time to adjust some stuff! There's a lot of language stuff here, and I did my best but I'm not a lang person, so I am definitely open to real world feed. This chapter is dedicated to Sineala, on whose tumblr said panels are posted, and who dug into details like the hero she is. I'm grateful she let me ask stupid questions in the name of learning, and for a character that's growing on me. 
> 
> I'm rusty on particulars, but I'm sure unions do not work precisely this way in the actual-facts USA. Again, the commissioner of this fiction is me! However, WikiLeaks does happen, although in this universe this does lead to reform. Very slowly.
> 
> On-field game interactions between opponents don't go this way either. Code-of-conduct initiatives aside, this would be more like a touchy prelude to a brawl. Back in the day, like last century, not even pre-game ones... if there were any off-field at all. Today they are, however, a ton more chatty between plays, and there's a lot of cordial chest-patting. Pre-game is when all the fun contact happens. 
> 
> The transliterated speech will be in (" ") and otherwise be written out as understood. Lastly, look, the deficiency of second person plural is a bug, not a feature, and any dialect that's jammed it back into English is clearly superior to the bougie style manual. I learned that from a Latin teacher who then went to law school _so there_.
> 
> This is a very silly chapter. Just go with it.

_"Steve." A shake. He's grasping at nothing, like he laid out diving and missed, squeezing the glove over thin air. (He doesn't even notice the rough palm placed lightly over his nose. His jaw hangs open in response.) _

_His ears pop, it's like he never got the surgery, and he bats at... something soft. Even then, his face is mashed on a rather pointy pillow, but he doesn't want to complain to whoever's in charge. At least he has a pillow, unlike that one hotel where they'd had to toss out all the pillows. The pillows were bad. This is a good pillow. He can't be ungrateful. And there's something soft brushing his cheek. Hair? "Five more minutes, Mom." _

_Someone laughs, though soft, no one's making fun of him. _

_("You okay, Barnes?" "Sure. Angle the screen off his face, we're good.")_

◇

Steve found he was sharing a suite with Bucky again. He shouldn't have been surprised. Bucky still shot him a teasing smirk when he opened his door to find Bucky setting up on his bed. Steve wasn't sure there _was_ an adjoining room. He wasn't going to ask. Bucky's kit was laid out in neat rows. It was on the bed farther from the air vents, which annoyed Steve, but he wasn't bothered enough to bring it up, either. It was oddly dissatisfying either way: whether Bucky had done it on purpose, or if he'd forgotten how it had been before.

Steve was a little messier. At first. By gametime he had his own gear in order, partly to forestall a last minute panic if they had to clear out of the hotel early. That had happened to him twice: there'd been an evacuation due to an apparent gas leak, and then there'd been the errant hurricane that had blown the last game of the series right off the schedule, a game Steve had never made up as he'd been moved out of that club by that part of the season.

Partly, Steve felt for the hotel employees looking after them. Ever since the minor leagues, he'd resolved never to leave a mess for them to deal with. Also it was easier to leave a tip if it wasn't lost under piles of debris.

Thus his routine on the road was to make himself at home until it was time to go to the yard. Then it was all packed bags and hospital corners, and certainly no food sitting out. It occurred to him that Bucky ought to know all about that. Though nowadays, Steve could afford to take a taxi or a train, and arrive at the park as early as he pleased. And not merely financially. As a veteran, it was Steve's prerogative; as long as the unflappable Phil wasn't bothered, he'd thought nothing of it.

The hotel in Phoenix had been close enough to the ballpark to walk, so Bucky hadn't been around for that part. Routine was so important. All the times Steve had quarreled with his mom about sticking to one, and now here he was, a grown man, fretting over the domino effect on Bucky, and therefore team chemistry, and therefore his obligations and responsibilities as a veteran leader.

They ended up walking out of the lobby even earlier than Steve was used to. Bucky was guilt-tripping him over the terrible 'goat food', and while it was definitely a joke, Steve had to admit to himself that the guilt was totally working. Bucky dragged them through downtown until they were lined up at Primanti's in a sea of yellow and black, Bucky only humoring Steve's brand loyalty so far by tucking his hair into a blank, powder-blue ballcap disguise instead of an official licensed cap in Dodger blue. 

"You gotta figure out how you want them," Bucky was insisting.

"I can read." There was a lot to read. At home, Steve didn't even go out to Pink's without looking up the ingredients list of every single hotdog online. He didn't even have any food allergies.

"You'll start a riot if you take forever—"

"You're interrupting my reading time! Last time I had to plow through something the size of a U.N. decree—!"

"I know you, you're indecisive," said Bucky. Decisively. "If it's not a hard-hit liner, you get all wishy-washy."

"Do not," Steve said. They were attracting stares. Though it was the garden variety 'This might be a bigger trainwreck than the one I'm in' instead of the fraught grab-bag that was 'I think that's a celebrity on my star map' which Steve knew was more bad luck than good. He was pretty sure that was a group of truck drivers arguing over whether teen vampires were superheroes, and if they could hire them for a kid's birthday party. 

Still, Steve felt his shoulders hunching. He didn't relax till Bucky knocked them back down with the gun side of his forearm.

Then Steve caught sight of the sandwiches. Steve had heard about these sandwiches. 

Well, that was appalling. "That can't be _one_ sandwich."

"Oh no you don't. We're not splitting, I'm having my own. Besides, you'll inhale it. Or did your switch out your metabolism for someone else's?"

Bucky did know he put it away like black hole, after all. "I can't order the works and then run around the rest of the day!"

Some guys ahead of them were sizing them up. Out of habit, Steve read his lips. "He's right. The works is a lot for a little guy."

Steve forgot to be offended. "See!" He twisted around, brushing arms with Bucky.

"Hey, aren't both of you ballplayers? You got a game today?"

It took Steve several seconds, because to him it sounded like "Ey, ayn' bowchyuns bawpayahs? Yunz gawdda game tahday?"

The weirdest thing was that Steve could understand if he tilted his head and channeled old, old Brooklyn — the kind you didn't hear on the street anymore — with more letters chopped off and the remainder smashed together.

The next one he parsed out was: "Are they Yankees?"

Bucky and Steve hesitated a sliver too long. They traded looks. "No," they chorused.

One guy was giving his pal a hard time ("Duh-ass, 'as nahtta righ' coas'!") and the others were pointing at the menu. "He's got a point. How's he supposed to lug a dump truck in his gut?" All that in basically one long... sound. In the background they chimed in with blowing chunks jokes, though those were roundly hushed, in the middle of the lunch hour with people trying to eat. 

"Yeah, that'd be Clint Barton kind of stupid."

Suddenly Bucky was crowding into Steve. In case he took a swing at the guy. Buck was well-acquainted with Steve's loyalty. But maybe L.A. had mellowed Steve out, or he was a simply appreciative of the locals trying to fix up an order for him. (Take care of his decision for him.) They were all staring at him sidewise, too.

"Tough but fair," Steve told the man. 

A responding grin. "Weahcome taw da Burgh."

Bucky sighed in relief. Steve jabbed him with a sharp elbow.

Crammed cheek-by-jowl at the counter—the lady in charge briskly insulting her customers and slinging their fixings—and with Bucky stuck to his side and the meal sticking to his ribs, Steve felt convivial enough to turn to the group. They really had saved him a bunch of trouble. In the corner, some chastised tourists had their hands full of sandwiches, no place to sit, and faces full of shame.

"Hey," Steve hollered over the lunchtime tumult. "Can you guys take a day off work?"

"We might," said one slowly.

"What if I got you tickets to the game?" said Steve.

"You for real?" came the obvious question. ("Yunz furreah?")

"Come on," Steve cajoled. "Play hooky for half a day. I'll leave you tickets at will-call."

Now they were staring with wide eyes. It was nice to slap that look of surprise on someone else, today.

Bucky leaned over Steve, halfway over his lap. "I'll call your boss! With a permission slip!"

"Buck, you're dribbling fries on me," muttered Steve.

"...can't get Steve in trouble," Bucky was saying. "Don't post it or anything."

"It'd be okay," Steve protested. He was fishing out his fancy phone, probably greasing it up. He was a professional ballplayer, he wasn't bobbling small objects in public.

"No, you'd get asked about That One Time In The Sandwich Shop on every talk show in town until you're rehashing the story in Cooperstown annually. Bob Costas will pry it out of you. His ghost will come back to make you tell it again." _You'd hate that monkey business,_ Bucky's glance said. _You don't have to._

"Okay, under the table, you got it—"

"Here's the card for our union boss—"

"Sweet," said Bucky, like he paid attention to their own union's newsletters.

"—worry about, this loser's not even on Twitter—"

"Twitter is for preteens and cults!"

"Don't post it on your Facebook either, you call your mom like a normal—"

"Hello, this is Bucky Barnes, professional baseball player!" Bucky yelled into the phone. "Yes, that is my real name!"

(Behind them, someone bodychecked a kid in a Crosby jersey. "Wachoo doin', he sez no pichahs, dipsh—!")

Steve spared them a friendly shrug; nothing to worry about.

The boss's voice blared from the phone into a lull in the noise, a bland business formal that was jarring in the ruckus. Bucky must've upped the volume. _"—only follow the Steelers,"_ he was saying.

There was a chorus of groans. Then in tandem, like a movement in a symphony: a rising swell of laughs. "He'll look it up on WikiLeaks," one of the workers said.

"Wikipedia," came the correction.

"No, he will for real, he's got this theory on space aliens—"

_"You the catcher?"_

"Yes I am, and as a professional baseball player, I have it on good authority that your employees are suffering from a serious lack of the green grass and wholesome air of your fine ballpark." Bucky had an eye on the crowd; he too was grinning, relaxed.

"We're going to kick your ass!" Someone hollered cheerfully.

Maybe he could only follow one word in five, but in Steve's world, that buoyant challenge was universal. "If I get another sandwich, you sure will!" he responded.

"Back up the truck, get the man another fucking sandwich!" 

Their half of the place broke out into a round of cheers. Then jeers as someone in the corner nearly dropped their entire paper of sandwich fixings. Steve swore under his breath — all that food! — but he was smiling.

"Yes, I speak French," Bucky said into the phone. Yelled. 

"We're not fired?" One of the guys on the far side of the counter called.

"Give me your work address, I'll send him something," Bucky promised, hand not really covering the pickup.

"Tell you what," Steve said, as he failed to stop the next patron from ordering a bag of sandwiches for him. "I'll put you and your buddies on the third base side, and you can tell Clint what you really think of him."

"You got it!" Bucky told the boss on the phone.

"Yaw gottit," said their new fans. One offered a mitt as large as an outfielder's glove. ("Sees ya, bawpayah!") Steve shook on it. He took out his phone to text Heimdall while Bucky picked his pocket for his Dodgers debit card before it got out that they'd let some blue-collar local try to buy Pirates win with a hot sandwich.

◇

He and Bucky crossed the bridge into the ballpark proper. The structure was a bright yellow against the brick-and-steel skyline, with another bridge just like it not far off also spanning the Allegheny River. The vehicle traffic was light enough not to wreak havoc on Steve's inner ear, nor his sinuses. The bridge had a perfect view of the field, and vice versa. Bucky pointed out the standing-room tower thing in the corner of the park, already collecting its share of milling fans. Steve said there weren't any bad views of this park. Anywhere else looked cozy compared to Dodger Stadium, but something about the Steel City architecture hit all the right notes.

Steve was telling Bucky about the sunset reflecting off the buildings just right when the click-click of heels cut through the rumble of traffic. Bucky looked up too, and came to attention, which was alarming in itself.

"You've pissed off Heimdall," Peggy announced.

Oh. That was not good. That was life-or-death. Steve and Bucky looked at each other.

"And me," Peggy added, giving Steve the eye. Which struck Steve as a bit unfair. "He only found out you were alive and breathing after you texted him. Next time you plan to miss the team bus to go on walkabout, do apprise someone in a position of responsibility. _Call_, Rogers."

Now that was unfair. He nearly said, _Bucky's the responsible one_. It couldn't be proven in a court of law. "Yes, Skipper."

"Stark had to locate you on social media," Peggy sniffed. "You made Tony look responsible."

Steve did wince. The slack he got as a veteran only extended so far. "Sorry, Skip."

"And when you get back to Los Angeles—" she trailed off, and smirked. Steve bit his lip. He got the message. Of course she knew they were walking off their meal. Oh, they weren't in trouble with _her_.

She turned on her heels, bright white with blue toes, and meekly they followed her all the way back to the visiting clubhouse.

Nobody called out an 'oooooh' when they arrived. Not yet. Her back to them, it wasn't reassuring that the team could see Peggy's expression and they couldn't.

Once safely by their lockers and changing out of their 'disguises,' Bucky slipped over to whisper to Steve, "What does Heimdall like?"

"I dunno," Steve whispered. "We'll ask Thor."

They weren't faring well with effective whispering. Or it had gotten around as to why their manager had disappeared to personally retrieve them. "A leash!" Jimmy called out the suggestion.

"Don't let Rogers wander off, Buckshot," Quill added. Which was truly unfair, given the source. 

"Why d'you think I'm following him around all the time?" Bucky replied. Everyone laughed. 

Not to mention...! Before Steve could wing him from across the room, Quill added, "The nickname was Not-So-Secret Society approved! I have people. Who know people."

Bucky snorted, and retreated to his locker. Steve let that and the whole puppy-on-a-lead joke slide, because as Peggy had insinuated: if Tony knew they'd sampled Pittsburgh's local cuisine, Pepper knew too. He didn't have the heart to break it to Bucky that it would be salad for years.

◇

Nick never appeared to be amused. He was amused, though. No one really knew what to do with that, least of all Steve. Though he did have a strategic approach of sorts. He stood planted in front of the visitor's office with his arms crossed. 

Peggy never outright said Nick took the lead when they played the Pirates, but Nick had started out with the organization. Rumor had it he'd even had pull among the scouts. No one really talked about Nick, Steve had noticed, yet they never said anything bad about him either. Better not to question. At least not inside the park; if Nick knew deep, dark secrets about the contender-or-bust club, Steve wouldn't be the one who let on. If they'd been halfway consistent, Steve would wonder why the Pirates let Nick Fury in the door to spill all their secrets to the enemy.

Nick's visible eye wasn't trained on Steve. He was not-grinning at Bucky.

"You telling me you've been chatting up Batroc the Leaper for an autograph? In French?"

"It's not for me," said Bucky. He was slouching very stiffly.

Steve choked. That was the price of Pirates fans' boss. The fans in question had nearly been tossed for heckling Clint, who as Steve expected, had done his very best to pretend not to hear them. (This was a roundabout way of doing Clint a favor. On one of many designated driver stints, Steve had sat through Clint's confession that he'd gotten into pro ball for the trash-talking. Verbatim, Clint could repeat taunts that sounded more like a dirty ringmaster than a cleaned-up baseball movie. Now it was #1 Dad versus The Swear Jar.) 

Steve was leaving the plausible deniability to Bucky. Usually he'd pass it off to Nat.

"You couldn't send a clubbie?" said Nick. Good question.

"I'd have to explain it to the clubbie."

"Knew something was off," said Nick. "Didn't take you for a chatterbox. So let me get this straight. You're explaining it to Batroc. In the Algerian dialect."

"I wouldn't say that," said Bucky. "It's just throwing in some Arabic loan words. My accent's nothing to write home about."

Fury gave him The Eye. "Don't get into a fight. We got one more game, and some people in this clubhouse would rather get drilled than stand down." His gaze slid over to Steve, who suddenly regretted hanging back.

Bucky spent a single, interminable second look at Steve as well. "It's an expressive language."

There had been some gesticulating going on, Steve noticed.

"I'm sure. Well," said Nick. "Not to jinx it—"

"Don't believe in that shit," said Bucky.

"—you've got an on-base streak going."

"Sweet."

"Whatever motivates you," sighed Nick. "Don't get into any fights with _anybody_," he added.

"Stick to my stellar conversational skills. Got it."

It was after Nick strode off that Bucky rounded on Steve. "Tell me you _duck_ when you're being _headhunted_."

"It's a free base!" Steve blurted out. "Helmets are more advanced than they used to be."

"You're only saying that because of your hard head...!" Bucky shook like a dog trying to shiver off a flea. "I'm gonna have to spill the whole story to Georges. Batroc," he added, because nobody called him Georges, like, what in the what. "Speaking of hard nuts to crack."

"Since this is a bizarre conspiracy to hush up that I bought tickets for a bunch of Pirates fans, I'm finding this ironic."

"Alanis is a national hero," Bucky hissed. 

Steve raised his hands. "Canadian pop stars, off the table, got it. Go ahead and tell him. Batroc's intense but he has a healthy sense of humor."

He was about to add that Bucky didn't actually have to run interference for him — he wasn't a real rookie — although Bucky might point out that this was his agent's job, and then Steve would have to explain the entire sandwich thing, which Natasha would find quirky. Which was her favorite kind of hilarious.

Then Bucky said, clearly, so that other people could hear him, "Besides, you have an entire shoebox of Anne Murray cassettes," and Nick hadn't told Steve not to pick any fights, and Steve was pretty sure he could tickle Buck into submission without either of them picking up a stupid injury.

◇

The following evening, Batroc started to ... accost Steve. In itself, that wasn't unusual. The majority of first basemen were chatty sorts, partially because they saw the most traffic of anyone outside of the catcher. They also tended to be the power hitters, at least in this era, and sometimes Steve sympathized with them, lodged on their solitary face-of-the-franchise pedestals. After his rookie year, Steve had spent a restless winter evening thinking of conversation gambits for every regular first baseman in the Majors. (These days he made up openings for the newer players, too, because deep down it bothered him when they were too intimidated to talk.) 

Steve tapped a bouncer past the infield, and skidded back before he could attempt an ill-fated double. Not two seconds after Nick muttered out a quick report on the lay of the land, Batroc replaced him to whisper over Steve's shoulder like _he_ was the first base coach. Or, given his exaggerated accent, like he was whispering sweet nothings.

"What is acceptable, if I part with my autograph for you?"

"The autograph's not for me," Steve said. He edged away. The pitch missed the plate. He edged back. 

"Of this I am aware, _Capitaine_," Batroc said. Was he waggling his mustache? "I want nothing from Monsieur Barnes. But you, now..."

"How about I steal second," Steve said.

Steve didn't steal second. The inning came to a close. 

Bucky got on base. Steve sat up and clapped for him. Clint joined in, while asking what they were clapping for. Draped over the railing, Steve observed Bucky at first base with the backdrop of the sunset sky. It really was a pretty view. Wrapped in the scent of pine tar and fresh dirt, beer and melted cheese, with their boys on base, it was a vista out of a storybook. Too bad mobile phones were banned in the dugout, he'd have liked to send a snapshot to Natasha. She did her share of appreciating athletes in uniform, too.

Two innings later, Steve managed an infield hit. He was still panting, hands on knees, when Batroc leaned over and said, "I gather from your friend that this is a hush autograph."

Oh, right. Bucky had just been on base. (Speaking Algerian French. Which was, according to Steve's browser searches, a French dialect mixed with local North African languages, while Québécois was French mixed with North American ones. Since they hadn't been acquainted before, Steve wanted to ask Bucky if and when he'd been to Algeria. Or France in general. Should Steve have known if Bucky had gone to Africa? It kept him up more than whether Bucky actually had.) Maybe both he and Steve would go three-for-three. Or more. It was a pity they weren't back-to-back in the lineup, the Dodgers really needed to string some hits together... 

"Hang on a sec. Are you spilling?"

It wasn't like your average big leaguer would put the scribes before players, but Batroc talked to everybody. Clearly.

Batroc grinned. "I didn't think the famous Cap was chicken."

The last word had about eight vowels in it. Steve twitched instead of wincing. "I think I'd rather steal second."

Batroc thumped him on the back. "Catch your breath first."

Steve grimaced at him. A lot of players liked to pat him on the backside. Steve could read into it, considering, except mostly he didn't mind it. It was different on the field. Nobody went for his head (which Natasha was possibly responsible for, as other guys went positively mad when they were touched, and were actively targeted for head rubs.) Just a friendly pat. Sometimes a nudge.

Maybe first basemen weren't the only ones on pedestals.

In the dugout: "Is Georges bothering you?" Bucky asked.

"'Georges'?" For some reason that irritated Steve more than Batroc's persistence.

"He said he'd cartwheel race you for it," Bucky admitted.

"What did you tell him?"

"That you'd probably keep going till you roll into the Allegheny." Bucky clicked his tongue at Steve's stare. "Hey, you go hard. In workouts. It was a compliment."

At Bucky's backpedaling, Steve assured, "No, I know. It's just... Cartwheels?" Part of him was itching to _try_. He was pretty sure Bucky had gone through a Guinness World Record phase too. Except tumbling class had been ages ago...

"We can skip the autograph," said Bucky. "I mean, it's not worth it to start beef with these... Pirates."

"You nearly said Buccos."

Bucky flushed. "Shut it. Seriously..."

"It's fine!" 

"I can still text those fans," Bucky said doggedly.

At this point Coach Hill came up with a last-minute scouting report on the next Pirate pitcher, which got them to the next inning, and Steve left it alone.

In his final plate appearance, an outfielder had Steve's hot shot tracked dead on... until he dropped it. This time Steve nearly went for two. 

He should've gone for two.

Batroc pretended to bend to check the bottoms of his cleats. "I would give you a signature for free. You would not accept it, would you?"

He had his attention.

"Probably not," he allowed.

Unfortunately, the catcher (and possibly the rest of the Pirates, shit!) had been taking note of their interactions, and in turn shot a look at the pitcher. Tweaked, the pitcher looked Steve back to the base twice. 

Steve didn't waver. Daring them to try. Then the pitcher did fire to first. Despite his generous lead, Steve dived back in time, Batroc's swipe tag thumping him on the back of his jersey.

Batroc started talking while the dirt was fresh on Steve's knees.

"For the sake of my sincere admiration," he said simply. "I have an idea."

His accent was like a low stream over small pebbles. He wondered if he sounded like that in French, too. Or if Bucky did. Steve stood on the bag, dusting off, his eyes locked on the pitcher, the catcher, the Pirates staff milling on the top step. The direction of the wind. "I'm listening." 

What could it hurt?

"Three little words..."

◇

"Georges," Steve said in delayed horror, as soon as it dawned on him that he had entirely taken his eyes off the field. "Who told you that?"

◇

"Do you ever keep your helmet on?!" Bucky greeted him as he backtracked to retrieve it. The helmet had become dislodged when he'd flown past third base... to no avail, the runner behind him was gunned down for the final out of the inning. Good thing the lead was still theirs. Bucky had his gear, and vigorously stuffed Steve into his cap, before handing over his glove. He warmed to his subject, "Is this related to how little padding you wear?"

Steve could make a crack about how Bucky armored up for his plate appearances — catcher's gear off, pads and guards on, every time he was on-deck to hit, then gear back on again — but he did know Bucky had a very good reason for that. He wasn't touching it. "I like to rise to the challenge," Steve managed.

Georges, who was crossing over to his own dugout, seemed to have heard him. Very, very slowly, a smirk formed on his face. It was aimed at Steve.

Steve covered his confusion by tossing said helmet to Yondu. (Who hawked a spit, but away from anyone's path, so nothing provocative to raise the antennae of opponents and umpires alike.)

Bucky's gaze tracked Georges off the field.

"What the fuck did he say to you?"

Steve froze in the middle of adjusting his cap. He pretty sure the leak hadn't been Bucky. Had it? 

Bucky seemed too on edge to be joking around, but... it had been a long time ago. By now, even Becca Barnes had to know all about it.

Then it occurred to him that the rest of the infield was listening in, or watching. Deliberately he shook himself loose. "Don't worry about it." In the face of Bucky's skepticism, Steve made a show of rolling his eyes. "Seriously, it wasn't anything."

Top of the following inning, Bucky got on base again. It was only a personal record (and would've been split with the Expos anyway), but he'd looked up Bucky's streak to find it was longer than his own, from last season. This time everyone in earshot had taken up the clapping and hollering. Steve stood precariously on the seats at the railing and cheered like Bucky was chasing Ted Williams. Bucky was half turned away already, standing on first base and head tipped to listen to Nick, but as he stripped off his batting gloves he nearly flipped him off behind his back.

He'd already forgotten Georges'... okay it was a dare. Apparently it wasn't just Bucky, Steve was weak for them. Georges was too direct and _enthused_ to be contemplating blackmail. However he had come upon the information, Steve was quietly tempted. Still, it didn't matter anyway, as long as the lead was theirs.

Steve thought nothing more of it. 

...until the bottom of the inning, when that lead came under threat and the bullpen had a fire to put out, and Bucky started checking the baserunners with extreme prejudice. No sooner would the pitch smack into his glove than he was up and short-arming bullets to first. 

Luke took it all in stride; he only spared one glance at Steve, as if to acknowledge the old heads-up. PB was covering right field and tensed every time — with Steve and Miles holding the runners, if a ball did get away to the outfield, he'd be stuck without backup. On the mound Monty rolled his shoulders a couple of times, annoyed, though of course Bucky wouldn't risk him getting cold. And they had their gameplan; Monty wouldn't be thrown off his rhythm that easily.

Then Monty started serving them up outside the zone, all the better for Bucky to snatch up and come set. They weren't technically, officially pitch-outs; those were usually called from the bench. Or the catcher. Bucky's ice-cold demeanor revealed nothing. Monty even mixed in a few checks of his own.

Unease rippled through the Pirates — their third base coach was frantically relaying signs, fingers wiping and tapping across his face and shoulders — and the crowd was getting riled up. Steve usually tuned it out but he could tell the language was getting saltier. Undeterred, every few pitches Bucky threatened the runners with machine-like regularity. He was transparent about it, though, practically double-clutching, and everyone got back to their bags safe. If the home plate umpire had words, Bucky's response must've placated him.

It was risky, no, incredibly high-risk, but Steve wasn't worried. He was too busy positioning himself (and Miles) to figure out precisely what had triggered Bucky. On top of that, the batter kept ducking out of Bucky's way, like he was _scared_, giving Bucky a clean, straight line to Luke's glove. Bucky wasn't the only one giving out gifts.

Finally Monty ran the count up to 3-1, and without hesitation Peggy marched out to the mound.

Steve sidled up. Miles trailed after, expression a little too openly curious (to be fair to Miles, even without tells, the situation was fairly out-of-the-ordinary).

Monty was trying for a contrite look, and mostly came off as trying too hard. Bucky looked totally blank, Steve thought. Perspiration beaded along his upper lip. Steve bit his own. But getting on Peggy's radar twice in as many days? He might get a slap on the wrist on reputation alone, but if it was serious enough, Bucky might end up in kangaroo court. What was _Bucky_ going to say if Peggy asked what was going on? He seemed—

Peggy grabbed Steve's glove, with Steve's hand still in it, and used it to conceal her mouth.

"Cut it the fuck out," she told them.

No demanding an explanation. And not a request.

Though Monty had a better pokerface than Miles, he was about stupefied that no one was in the bullpen warming up to replace him. Bucky was half a second away from the trouble he was in starting to sink into his head.

Steve took him aside. 

"Am I big in Canada?"

Bucky's arm jerked up to level with the bill of Steve's cap, the answer tripping out: "No, you're still this tall, only in meters."

Monty's pokerface convulsed with stifled laughter. Miles clapped his entire glove over his face.

"Fuck you very much, eh," Steve said, withdrawing before Bucky could ask why he wanted to know.

Two pitches later, the batter struck out, and Bucky snapped a throw to first that was so low that its momentum was carried by Luke's glove to tag the fuck out of the errant runner. Strike 'em out, throw 'em out. Their team slid off the field, in formation like a giant handkerchief through a loop, clattering down the stairs past a stonefaced Peggy Carter. What was left of the crowd subsided.

The press sneaked in half a question about that inning. Skipper backed them up without batting an eyelash.

Steve was so early to bed, to avoid Heimdall, that he didn't realize that Bucky was a little late getting back to their hotel room.

◇

As though they could only get their asses kicked at night, the Pirates came alive on the getaway day. Bucky's on-base streak was snapped, Luke was swinging at air, Bobby and Clint had base-running gaffes that left Peggy steamed. Coach Hill... Maria never looked nervous, per se, but she kept adjusting her cap. Steve and PB talked Miles through threading hits into the gap, but of their whole lineup it was only Steve who was having any luck against their starter.

Across the way Steve caught Georges practicing, some hapless rookie's head bobbing up and down relative to the dugout roof. If the rumors were true about the Pirates, the poor kid already had to go through boot camp.

Georges' form did look fairly smooth.

And Steve may have sneaked a few extra stretches while Bucky was in the shower.

It was ultimately a stupid dare for a stupid bet. Back in the day (when players were pretty much utterly controlled by their teams), old-school loyalty meant Steve might not exchange two words with Batroc, the enemy. Deep down in his dirtbag soul Steve felt like this rubbed him the wrong way. But if the Dodgers won the game, it would be a moot point, and then nothing would happen.

Georges hit a double in the fifth inning. Steve drifted over, sensed Miles crossing over temporarily to cover the base. Batroc shook off his elbow pads like a bristling rooster, and once the umpire granted time, acknowledged Steve with a half-salute.

Point-blank, Steve asked: "Why?"

Georges was anything but thrown by his curtness. If anything he puffed up. "We are not so different, you and I."

Oh-kay then.

"Sweet second base!" Georges threw his arms open to the expanse of sky, and his gear was plucked by an unsurprised Pirates coach. "I too was a second baseman in a past life. They say it is the same as short, but it is not quite, ah?" His grin was as long as his vowels. "Fraternity. Respect. Family. And it is funny. This city," he said conspiratorially, as their next batter got in the box. "Not many smiles when there is no football, no hockey."

Steve began to back up. This was one more unorthodox occurrence in a series full of them. What was happening? He was considering it, he really was. "It's early in the season." They still had series to play, which could get dangerous. Hell, grudges could be carried into retirement, much less into the next season. "Your boys aren't going to take it wrong?"

"Not at all, we run a tight ship!"

After the pitch, the batter called time. Bucky changed the signs. Georges wandered back into Steve's range. 

"Cleats?" Steve asked, and Georges clapped his hands, knowing he was _in_.

"Do not worry. Leave it to me!" Georges shuffled into his lead. "And a soft landing, on my honor, _Capitaine_."

"Better be," said Steve. Because Peggy might kill him. Natasha might fly in specially to kill him.

The Pirates might come after all of them if they ended up on the IL.

◇

Top of the ninth. The Dodgers were scrambling for a comeback. The fans were already raucous, a football-like boozy roar despite the alcohol being cut off in the seventh. Steve was too busy working a walk and then grasping for that last chance—a sign to steal, half an inch of extra lead, a burst of motion to distract the pitcher—to chat with Batroc.

Luke took one last swing.

The ball slapped into the catcher's glove, and the dull tumult burst into a full-throated din. The Pirates fans didn't take their wins for granted. 

Somewhere in no man's land between second and first base, Steve trotted back towards his dugout.

And came face-to-face with Georges Batroc.

Steve Rogers was no welcher.

"Let's do it," he said. Around them, the Pirates team was already lining up single-file for high-fives. The giant green parrot was waddle-running over...

Georges' smirk was bright with concentration. He made as though to walk past Steve, towards the queue, and instead made a turn. Steve tucked his batting helmet to his side like he had nothing better to do. Core locked, legs tight together, neck loose. 

Subtly, he rose up on his toes.

"Ankles, knees: I will steer clear," assured Georges. "Wait for it," he said, dropping to a crouch behind Steve.

Gathering their gear in haste, Steve's teammates were only now looking over their shoulders—

"HOIST THE JOLLY ROGER!" boomed the public address announcer.

And Georges got under Steve's cleats and lifted him straight up into the air.

It was, Steve thought begrudgingly, a perfect lift. Steve was elevated in place, as though he were still planted on the ground, arms in place, face blank as a statue. Prudently (shut up, Bucky) he'd been ready for Georges to drop him; instead, the fireworks went off, painting the sky in front of the bridge, and he was deftly lowered back to earth.

The giant green parrot nearly dropped the actual black flag.

On solid ground, Steve held position on tiptoes until Georges was standing up again. Something thumped into his batting helmet. The buzz on the field caught up with them, and Steve turned to find Georges saluting him. Steve returned the salute. "Good game," he said.

"And to you as well, Cap!"

Doubletime, Steve sprinted for his dugout, blushing as the wave of sounds caught up to him: shocked laughter and cheers, and some coarse jubilation from the stands. Oh God that had been stupid, and it would make the evening news cycle, which Natasha liked to remind him meant the morning shows. Bucky was only deterred from charging up dugout steps by Peggy's pre-emptive reprimand (meaning: before the umpires could issue one).

"Buck!" Steve called. He sounded way more excited than he thought. The important thing was he caught Bucky... before the rest of his team rushed the Pirates. Oops. Fortunately Bucky was still clogging the stairs. Steve threw himself across Bucky's chest, and grabbed at the object inside his helmet. "Take it!"

Whatever was on Bucky's face fell away to confusion. Then he felt what was sandwiched between them. He was still wearing a bunch of his catcher's gear, and easily stashed the autographed baseball in among the load. "Ffff—!"

Steve hustled him backwards. Last one in was indeed Luke, and Steve caught his eye to make sure the rest of the team was herded off the field, and not into a melee.

Nick was in the tunnel. "What did I tell you," he grumbled. "Letter of the law, hm?"

Steve found he was giggling. "Spirit of it!"

"What the hell was that?"

"Georges and I had a gentleman's agreement," said Steve. Because saying 'bet' in a clubhouse that didn't have 'fantasy' nor 'football' attached was out-of-the-question. Steve could not keep a straight face. Giddily he jostled Bucky, shoulder to shoulder. "We waited till the end of the game...! The end of the series. When do we play them next?"

A laugh escaped Bucky, who towed him away from Nick Fury. His whole face was red. "You're nuts, Rogers. Does this mean short jokes are on the table? You know, what you call a shelf." Meaning: next time let me know, you scared me to death.

"It was a garden gnome imitation," Steve insisted. Bucky guffawed, and then the rest of the team caught up with them.

"Did you plan that!?" "Was that what he was bugging you about, Cap?" "Did he want your number?" "Lookin' good Cap!"

Steve was trying to stop laughing, he was. "Please, the only shagging after Opening Day is in the outfield during batting practice."

"I thought he was going to launch you like a satellite!" exclaimed Scott.

"I don't go down that easy," Steve said, and everyone hooted. The media was starting to trickle in, shit. "It's cool! Okay? Ice cold. Come on."

"Who knew you had a sense of humor, Cap," said Tony. "Corny as hell. I thought you were a Brooklyn tough. Here you are, consorting with the enemy."

Steve was seized by a memory of his mom watching cheesy old tv movies. "Next time win," he told them. "Then I wouldn't have had to do that."

"What if he'd really been going after you?" Miles said timidly. 

"What, Cap?" Luis chortled. "He can take on the world, manito."

◇

Peggy said not a word to Steve, but she did abandon him to the press. Steve had the foresight to shower fast and change into his nice dark blue shirt. And he had a whole bunker's worth of canned responses. Expression carefully placid and professional for each of them.

"Did you plan this, Cap?"

"We were both on the basepaths all series long," Steve stated. "Kept count. That ended up a tie, so last-minute we went with tonight's game winner. It was in good fun."

"You didn't seem that happy to be involved."

That wasn't a question, but Steve had to get on top of that. "A Dodgers loss isn't a happy occasion."

"Is this some sort of rivalry..."

Steve said, "It was something fun for the fans. We waited till after the score went official. Can't see how that would cause any hard feelings."

"What if you'd won?"

"I don't know. Handstands, maybe." Cartwheels, he thought, sheesh.

"That looked like a precarious manuever. You trust Batroc?"

"As far as I can throw him," and that got a laugh. 

"Were you scared he'd drop you?"

Steve did scoff. "I'm not afraid of _that_." By everyone's responses, that was surely going in a meme or something. He gathered himself, tempered his tone. "We're both athletes, it wasn't a big deal."

Hopefully that would deflect neatly from their silly autograph extortion, and, more importantly, the inspiration for the stunt. No one was mentioning Bucky's barrage of pick-off attempts. Perfect.

Darcy was getting that gleam in her eye. Did she know? Oh god he should've countered with more blackmail. Surely Georges wouldn't spill Steve's personal life to the press. The only thing that hung around longer than grudges was embarrassing teammates.

"Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?" she burst out.

Wow, a Casablanca reference. Hang on, was that set in Algeria? No, Morocco. Had that been part of Algeria? "Georges is a great five-tool player, and I have a lot of respect for him."

In the corner of his eye, Steve caught Bucky twitching again. Maybe to the extra special emphasis on 'tool', only Bucky would find that funny. Or maybe it was the 'Georges' thing again. He turned away hastily, and Steve lost him amid the media scrum.

Georges elevating him was more dignified than asking for a stepstool to stand on.

◇

The rest of the team didn't get a chance to light into Steve. 

Peggy had gathered them up and reiterated that this was no happy flight. They'd dropped a game to the Pirates. Their attempt at a come-from-behind win had been half-hearted at best. Maybe they didn't need the game now, but closer to the playoffs, a single game might make all the difference. Most managers would prefer to turn the page; Steve understood how Peggy couldn't let it go when it looked like matters were going south. Her veterans knew better than to soften the blow. Like a timeless dance she'd step back to let the clubhouse leaders step up, and in turn they kept their mouths shut when she raised her voice. And much of that was following Steve's lead.

It was somber enough to get the team off his back, for now. Tony kept giving him the eyeball but that was normal.

On said flight, he was so busy keeping his head down that it wasn't until Bucky came down the aisle that Steve realized he hadn't spoken to him since they'd left the field.

Steve felt like something was crashing on his shoulders, like the ground had met him instead of him meeting the ground. He'd never been nervous around Bucky, never been afraid to be silly around him. They had stuck their share of bubble gum on baseball caps together. Worse yet he wasn't sure how Bucky was taking his ridiculous stunt, or how surprised everyone was that he'd stepped out of line at all.

Bucky took his time stowing his carry-on, fastening his seatbelt. He liked to be strapped in on moving vehicles, which was why Steve didn't offer a ride on his bikes. Then Bucky produced a tablet. Steve nearly slumped in relief. They were just reviewing game tape. No biggie.

Except when Bucky opened the file, out of a shortcut on the home screen, it wasn't from the video department, or Maria or Rhodey or Tony. It was a gallery from one of the news services. 

"I can't believe you told him," Bucky whispered. 

Oh. It really hadn't been Bucky who'd told Georges. So that left one possible suspect.

"I didn't say a word about it," Steve said quickly.

"...that was another lifetime ago," Bucky was saying. 

"All that is publicly available. If you dig," said Steve, then he flicked his eyes over to the front rows, where Nick Fury was thumbing through a binder.

Bucky huffed. 

Steve agreed; he couldn't even be shocked. Of course it had been Fury who had tipped off a lifetime Pirate to those three little words.

Growing up, Steve had worked on his lung capacity by deploying his piercing soprano. Back then there hadn't been exhibition series or worse yet, travel ball, to fill off-season, and if there had, they couldn't have afforded it. Except Steve couldn't sit still for traditional choir. Show choirs wouldn't take him. The rest were affiliated with places of worship that, between him and his mom, had been vetoed. Another parent at tumbling class had connections with a song-and-dance troupe, and the rest was ancient history. All the dancers had been cheer squad veterans; Steve had learned more in backstage practice than from his brief cameos as the tiniest star. Then his voice had crashed from tower to basement, his family had moved away, and the next time he'd hung out with the cheerleaders, no bystander had guessed the real reason why.

The troupe's schedule ended in mid-September. Since he'd been sick or in school for all but one group photo day, only a few people knew he'd ever been involved. (Later he'd found out that a few ladies had raised objections to putting a little kid's portrait in range of talent scouts, and now that he lived in Hollywood, with a twang of nostalgia he totally got that.)

Before he could wonder what Bucky really thought of his stint on the stage, the tablet loaded a picture.

The wire service photographer had managed to capture the apex of the lift. Georges's head was offset, unheeding of the dirt ground into the side of Steve's pants from belt to cuffs ... but the majority of the frame was Steve's back, his squared off shoulders, at his side the glint of his helmet, the yellow of the vacated seats and the green fuzz of the mascot all blurry smudges in the lower backdrop, with fireworks bursting across the night sky. Steve's road greys blazed with red light, the cropped-off eleven turning into blue stripes below his name.

Steve was amazed.

"Star Spangled Singers," Bucky murmured. The warm line of his arm, tight to Steve's side, shifted minutely as he turned to watch Steve. Three words. That could've been Steve's life if baseball had fallen through. Bucky wouldn't make fun of something important.

Steve leaned close, taking it in. What ridiculous madness was this. What had come over him? They'd all come close to touching off a team-wide brawl. And yet.

They stared at the picture.

Only in baseball. 

"I am not hanging it up on my wall," Steve breathed.

"It's my new lockscreen," Bucky said.

They would've stayed like that, foreheads nearly touching, paging through the gallery of the game. Then Heimdall's all-seeing survey caught them, and they were reminded that all devices had to be shut off for takeoff.

They were already in the air when Steve jerked back awake. "D'ja getta ball?"

Bucky nudged his face, gently. His teeth flashed. "Where did you think I disappeared to? Boxed and mailed. Mission completed." He paused. "Your Brooklyn's showing."

"That was stupid," Steve muttered. He couldn't help but smile, sinking back down. "Me," he elaborated.

That was an interesting question, though. Where'd he think Bucky had gone?

The pillow was shaking. Oh. Bucky's shoulder. He was laughing. "All'a youse."

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say 'We Are Family' and everyone in baseball knows: Pittsburgh Pirates. That's a team for the ages, heart and soul. Look 'em up.
> 
> ◇ Kangaroo court is borrowed from ye olde extra-legalities, and means a players-only tribunal that regulates behavioral infractions within the team. I may get into the unwritten rules and such, but the greater question is what fines are levied in a room full of millionaires and near-millionaires? Points to ponder... It's kind of like the Masons, people have accurate guesses unless you're one of the few who've lived in a baseball clubhouse and know for sure what goes on. 
> 
> ◇ The thing about pitch-outs is it's a tactic to position the batter by throwing the ball outside of the zone. Like, throwing a ball and not a strike; therefore the batter will probably not swing, so they're right where you want them. Typically you move the batter because you see a play developing on the bases, or you want to see if the batter offers to bunt (more on bunting later, I am almost sure). Anyway, because it's a _strategy_, outsiders are only guessing it's a pitch-out; it's qualified by a game-manager calling for it, like the manager or the catcher. Because it IS a ball. It doesn't appear to be anything other than a ball, and that's all the umpire will call it. Very, very good catchers will snaffle an unintended ball and use it like a pitch-out anyway. [No matter what the number guys will tell you] like most things in baseball, it's all about the context.]
> 
> ◇ It's a shame I couldn't get Maria Hill's 'squeezing my brain' line to intersect with famously big-headed Bruce Bochy. Have a great 'retirement', Boch. ◇ I was an utter pest trying to figure out the differences of French dialects with limited resources, and still don't know what I'm doing! But it's inspired me to drag Batroc back into the fic. The Pittsburgh accent on the other hand, I did almost no work on. Though admittedly I'm not as concerned about insulting 'em, I will say this: the best description of the accent was for the tongue to never touch the roof of the mouth. Also PNC Park is widely known as one of the most beautiful parks in baseball. ◇ Putting hands on an opposing player is so rare as to be, like, in the realm of Yasiel Puig trying to lick you or the more serious patting a guy who hits the ground hard to check for injury. Choreography of any kind used to be rare for players on the same team, much less 'the enemy'. Fictional~! Like, for real, the old-timers still grumble about players chatting before the game. (Not-so-subtly this is my answer to CATWS, where Batroc is apparently Fury's pawn and then he's swept off the stage. ◇ And a current note, matters are not in order yet, so not everything has been touched up around the fic. Have a great Hot Stove, fishies!


	8. Hit a Mile High | @ Colorado Rockies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the thin air of Colorado, Steve confers with some sharp ladies, tries not to stir up Bucky's bad memories, and is completely oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <strike>Well, let's ignore all that, shall we?</strike> Ahem. La-rry Walk-er ! Clap clap clap, clap, clap! ...ohgawd is it Truck Day? Is it... pitchers and catchers report??! I apologize, fishies, I meant to grind through the winter, then myself landed on the IL. ◇ Ok, funny story, I knew it was Barmes who was notorious for the RL injury incident, but I totally forgot that his first name was Clint. That can only mean that I do have to write this story now. ◇ Silly writer nitpicks. Steve has an appointment diary, but he called it a calendar back in chapter 2 because he's the POV character. No telling what's on his walls at present.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to themonkeycabal. (Sorry I'm writing a fic about the Dodgers! Blame canon.) Her advice couldn't be incorporated, sadly, but it was totally hilarious to picture Hydra as a pathetic beer league. So I pass that image on, with best wishes to tmc: a gem that fandom should treat accordingly. (Thanks for trying, Rox.) This chapter *might* be a candidate for beefing up later on, by the way, as Denver was part of Cardinals Nation up till the early nineties, because the famous AM signal (radio broadcast, I canNOT believe that needs elaboration for the majority of today's readers) reached into the valleys on clear nights. Thus there's never really been a rivalry despite being in the same league and a few states over. Anyway, I may add more later, I mean geez that ballpark is beautiful, but there's plenty to sink into.
> 
> To alleviate confusion: the reference to Josh Gibson is part of the alt!history component; he was the real deal. ◇ I was a major nerd and consulted the Colorado Fishing Atlas. As suspected, they could've gone fishing within a mile of the ballpark, but they're ballin' millionaires so they went to their lucky spot with the special scenery. There is no graphic fishing. ◇ If you wish to skip the graphic food elements, that's the very last section. Jump to "back to the hotel" for after dinner. (The latter restaurant doesn't exist anymore though you can look up old pics on review sites.) 
> 
> As mentioned, the canon Cyclone line will not be featured, though it may appear in metaphorical form.
> 
> (begin end-notes because there was no room!)
> 
> By no means will I get into the politics/people details of women in baseball, so some readings/topics are:   
everything by Professor Jennifer Ring (and she has a sabr article which sounds hardcore - sabr.org/author/jennifer-ring);   
_No Girls in the Clubhouse: The Exclusion of Women in Baseball_ by Marilyn Cohen;   
_Curveball: The Remarkable Story of Toni Stone The First Woman to Play Professional Baseball in the Negro League_ by Martha Ackmann;   
_The Most Famous Woman in Baseball: Effa Manley and the Negro Leagues_ by Bob Luke;  
Mamie "Peanut" Johnson visionaryproject.org/johnsonmamie/ ;   
Title IX;  
and a couple of top-result articles on popular sports essay blogs.   
Unnamed in-fic is Eri Yoshida, aka Knuckleball Princess.   
Also, timelines are sticky in this alt!history — I couldn't mention the tv show **Pitch**. 
>
>> There is nothing inherently masculine about baseball. _— Jennifer Ring, Stolen Bases_

#### Top Frame: Out To Lunch 

There was a whole lot of shaking on the flight to Colorado, which did a number on Steve. As soon as the seatbelt light came off, here they were scrambling for the restroom, to the tune of Tony calling them out for joining the Mile High Club, which neither Steve nor Bucky dignified with an answer. The subsequent round of turbulence made even Bruce turn green, shutting Tony up. Bucky made Steve take sips of water until he could fall asleep. He was so tired, Phil even let him sleep.

The next morning, apparently their wake times didn't sync up, so after making sure room service would cover Bucky's breakfast, Steve left him in their hotel room to catch up on sleep.

Natasha called him on the way to treatment. Which was just about the only time he was alone, and somehow she either had the goods on Phil, or they were bestest buddies (both daunting possibilities) so there was no rescue from that quarter.

"Are you off your game?" she demanded.

"Is this about the Pirates?"

"You have to admit you've been erratic, Steve."

"Me, or my stat line?" Which was unfair. Nat cared more about him than the back of a baseball card. Or whatever a 'Q rating' was. "I'm feeling good. My timing is locked-in, for once. Ask Coach Hill. My run game's on point, and I'm no more sore than I was in spring training."

"That's good," she acknowledged. "No, your numbers are within projections. But this is different. People are calling me, asking."

Steve felt awful. He'd put Nat on the spot. She did remind him, over and over, that she was just doing her job. He didn't like to stir up more work for her, not like her other clients. The difficult ones. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"You never liked Batroc before."

Well, Georges did have a reputation for dirty play, but... if Steve were honest, it was no worse than what he himself got away with. He knew better than to make something of a player's reputation.

"Did I dislike him?" Steve backed off of that before Natasha could laugh at him. "I mean, I didn't think he liked me all that much. Before."

Natasha laughed. "That's what you thought? Batroc practically— You didn't know he has a Captain America collection?"

"It can't be larger than Tony's."

"You're not supposed to know about that!" Natasha hissed, but she was still chuckling. 

"You're the one who approved all the merchandise." Profits from which went into buying and maintaining all his bikes.

"So you can tear up the road with your death machines, and do not take that as a dare, Rogers," said Nat, reading his mind. "Batroc bought your glove from Cape Cod. He had it authenticated; they don't even do that in the minors. He probably hasn't washed his hands after touching your spikes."

"Gross. I'll carry extra wipes for the next time I shake his hand." His lucky mitt! He'd wondered where all his stuff ended up after that call-up. Wisely he kept that to himself. Natasha was amused enough as it was.

And she was chortling. Probably at the first-name basis. "Did you even watch Batroc's post-game?"

"Since when do I have time to watch other people's interviews?" Or watch them at all. He wasn't Scott, or Tony. 

"Oh my god." There was a pause on her part, either to check her texts or sip whatever had made it into her wineglass. "Satisfy my curiosity. As a friend."

"As someone digging for gossip."

"You love me, and I need to one-up Maria." Oh. So Nat was friends with Coach Hill too. Steve wasn't too surprised. She pressed, "What got into you?"

"It was an impulse thing. I guess," he hemmed and hawed, not prevaricating at all, "Mother's Day hit me harder than I thought."

"Should I not have sent the flowers?"

"No! I mean, yes! They were nice."

"Of course they were nice. I can be _nice_." She said it like a threat of bodily harm. Given the cutthroat viciousness of her job, 'nice' was a bonus skillset. And it reminded Steve that Nat didn't do pity. She was practical to a fault. "Were they a bad idea? Because we can scrap them and get you hot firefighter calendars instead."

"Aren't they hot anyway? Generally speaking, I mean," said Steve absently, descending into the training room. "Maybe send them the night before?"

"So you don't forget what day it is," finished Natasha. "Maybe you _do_ need a wall calendar."

"I'd just skip to my favorite picture and keep it up all year long. Or longer."

"True. You sure there's nothing else?"

"I can't think of anything," said Steve, as he volunteered his non-dominant arm for who-knew-what; Phil mouthed 'Natasha?' and he nodded. "Thank you for thinking of me when you set the scheduled delivery."

"I appreciate your continued production too," Natasha cooed. "You have a table at Vesta with Carol Danvers."

"You got her!? Really?"

"Breathe calmly," said Phil. "You're tensing up."

Nat didn't bother with the 'Of course I did.' "Lunch because you're a freak who's up early. I'll text you the details. Enter it in your ca-len-dar."

"What do I wear?" Steve freaked out. But she'd already hung up. Damn it, the clubbies were not even here yet. Could he ask some random grounds crew guy how formal this restaurant was? This was Natasha's job. Or she was deploying reverse-psychology to make him text her, given that he'd failed to text her for hours after his first big media blowup of the year. Probably the latter.

"Something clean." Well, thanks a ton, Phil. Steve couldn't trust Phil with fashion decisions, he knew that much.

He did dampen a thin towel to cushion Steve's face, which was considerate of him. The pressure marks were more like welts on his skin type, but they usually did treatments well before the cameras would be on Steve. The marks would fade by then so he usually couldn't be bothered. Getting worked up seemed like an L.A. thing to do.

A reprieve appeared in the form of a text from Sam: something sassy getting on his case about Pittsburgh which didn't register with Steve. Instead he texted back with the news about meeting Carol, and Sam replied _!!!!!!_ Which didn't help. Thanks, Sam.

Steve ended up in the facility napping away his freakout long enough to clear his head, and for a clubbie to appear. They knew Steve too, given that he was in their division. He spent so much time in the visiting clubhouse that the running joke was he personally knew the dinosaur. (Steve didn't know any mascots, actually. They were so much bigger than him and slightly obnoxious... and when they were bigger and obnoxious and flopping towards him, Steve's knee-jerk instinct was to sweep their legs out, and that was not fair at all to the poor schmuck in the suit.)

So he reminded himself he had a lot of money in the bank, and tipped the clubbie well for his recommendations. He even called ahead without having to call Nat. What was it called? Adulting?

He wasn't going to feel guilty about avoiding Natasha, anyway, because he'd definitely call her after meeting Ms Danvers, and they both knew it. 

Usually last-minute fittings were... an asshole L.A. move, really. Though Steve had certainly heard enough stories when he was in New York, so it wasn't confined to L.A. Then he got to the place and they already had his measurements, and Steve tamped down his nerves by wondering how Natasha knew, or how the Rockies knew, or if there were agents in blue stationed in Denver, and maybe he shouldn't get himself wound up so soon after a session in the training room.

The tailors folded his street clothes, which was a little overwhelming. It made Steve feel like he needed to iron his sweatpants. It probably wasn't a ploy to make him add a zero to his tip, but when he walked out in his new duds ("Who says that, Rogers? You really are a fossil!") he felt they deserved it.

Bucky caught him in the hotel corridor. Belatedly Steve realized that he must've taken charge of Steve's bag and set it up in their room. He was about to tell Bucky that he wasn't really a rookie, he didn't have to carry Steve's baggage, when Bucky asked where he was going.

Steve looked down at his formal casual clothes. Casual formal? "I've got a meeting in LoDo. Nothing serious," he assured Bucky. Playing it cool.

He was about to ask what Bucky's face was doing when Clint, Scott, Luis, and Jason rolled up. That was a lot of people up early on an off-day, but Steve wasn't surprised. 

"Bucky! You ditching us for the Jimjams?"

"They're going fishing," Bucky said. "Monty and Jimmy Morita," he explained to Steve.

"Not hunting?" Steve asked.

"For little critters? With a bow and arrow?" Bucky wrinkled his nose.

"Wait till late season," said Clint, perhaps unaware of Bucky's stint in the time zone. "Then they open up for big game."

"Aha, I shoulda known there was a reason they had so many home stands late!" Bucky chuckled. "Everybody else requests Colorado during hunting season."

"You no good at it?" Luis asked. 

"Not into it," Bucky said, and Steve felt a pang of ... something, like his fast-twitch muscles wanted him to step in. Speaking of instincts.

"Have fun freezing your ass off," Jason said.

"Nah, no mountain stream is gonna beat me."

Steve's phone buzzed. "'Scuse me."

"Agent," Clint guessed.

Steve was nodding when Natasha's voice demanded: "Pictures!"

"I'm going to be late, Nat," Steve groused.

"Hurry up!" She hung up.

"Should we...?" Bucky said hesitantly.

"Help," Steve said, waggling the phone at them. He looked around for a non-incriminating background. The wallpaper seemed innocuous enough. He wasn't up for reliving that one selfie with the fan's poster that was in... poor taste.

Bucky grabbed the phone, eyeing their teammates like they might prank Steve. "This is like prom."

"Did you ever go to prom?" Steve asked. Luis was moving him away from the potted plant. 

Bucky was... making another face.

"You went to prom?" Scott asked excitedly.

"Not to your school's prom," Bucky answered. "Don't look at the flash, look at my chin."

"More like the DMV," said Steve. He followed instructions. 

The guys inspected the shots. No one ribbed him about it, even given the wire service photos that had followed them from Pittsburgh. Steve figured they were all scared of Natasha too.

"May I send it?" Bucky asked.

"Polite," Steve said. He silently discarded a few possible Canada jokes. It seemed a bit weird in mixed company. 

Scott was still looking between them, awkwardly. 

"Done," said Bucky. He tucked the phone into Steve's palm, and pointedly closed his fingers around it.

"Don't forget a tape measure," Steve said. Blurted out.

For some reason they all looked at him. "Dude," said Scott, "You need a tape—?"

Luis nudged Scott, hard. "For the fish." He made a clicking gesture. "For the picture with the fish in it."

"Glad you have confidence in our abilities," Bucky said to Steve, weirdly earnest. "Can't you estimate when we hold our catch next to us?"

"That was my question," Scott persisted.

Steve couldn't figure out what Scott's obsession with measuring was. Then his phone buzzed. Natasha again.

"Looking tasty," she reported.

"I'm going to be late," Steve told, well, everybody. He jabbed at the elevator button.

"Wear lip gloss! You're chapped!" Fortunately Natasha had him on her speaker, and not on Steve's, the distance from the pick-up enough to muffle her yell.

Steve's eyes fluttered. He turned in place. "I love you too, Nat." He tapped the phone off. "Shit," he said. He pocketed his phone. Could he pay off a clubbie to follow him around with a watch and a calendar? Phil would probably throw in a pulse ox. He could never tell Natasha, one, because she was right, and two, because she might try to strong-arm the owners into adding that rider to Steve's contract.

"Guess I can't treat you, huh," Jason called.

"I'll think of something," promised Steve, hurrying into the car. "See you guys! Bye, Buck!"

◇

Carol Danvers pulled a chair for him.

Steve started babbling as soon as he sat down. "Steve Rogers. Do you shake?"

She looked surprised. "No, I don't."

"Immuno-suppressed friends. Better to ask." Steve cleared his throat, and wondered if he should pull the napkin. There was silverware on top of it. Maybe not yet. Natasha had somehow cleared the entire restaurant for them (or was this before opening hours?), and he still felt cornered. "I'm nervous to meet you. And pleased! Mostly that. I'm sorry I couldn't make it up to Colorado Springs."

Having seated herself, very slowly she essayed a terribly non-regulation salute. Steve grinned, and returned the gesture.

"I wasn't sure why you'd want to talk to me," said Carol.

"Are you kidding? You were amazing in Toronto. You and Ms Rambeau were an amazing battery." Geez, how many times could he say 'amazing'? He was gushing. 

"It was an exhibition," Carol scoffed. "While the men got a real baseball tournament."

Steve sat up, sobered. "It's too late for next spring's WBC, but we can change that for the next time."

"You want women in the World Baseball Classic? Mixed. Not a segregated series." 

He shrugged languidly. "We'd yell till we're red in the face at the IOC."

"Damn right." No one was sure there'd even be baseball in London. The Committee could cancel it in the middle of hammering out how to fence out foul ground on a football pitch.

"The League office is obsessed with legacy. History. We have a good shot at opening up the WBC, with a head-start. Clubs already make a stink about overworking their starters between winter ball and spring training."

"Anyone concerned about overwork with us, when we have just as many injuries as you do?" Carol's lips tightened. "How long will non-male people be barred from major league locker rooms?"

Steve fiddled with one of the forks. "Not long if I have anything to say about it."

She crossed her arms. Which was pretty intimidating. She trained with the other elite athletes in the Olympic complex, regardless of the latest out of the IOC. The rumor mongers complained she was taking up space among the high-flyers. The team events without amateur restrictions typically ran their own practices.

Maybe Steve was habituated to L.A. Rumors were shit.

"Carter didn't send you," Carol said at last.

"You turned a triple play," said Steve. Blurted out. She'd gone airborne, actually. Given the accidental collision in the course of the tag, the umpires—only half of whom were MLB—had searched for a rules violation for several long minutes. Bob Costas had been flummoxed; he'd sounded like he'd wanted to rush the field as much as Steve had. That was on top of it being one of the rarest plays in the history of baseball. "Around the horn at warp speed, like you were whipping around a black hole. That's one of the coolest plays I've ever seen on a diamond. I'm just another fan-boy, I'm afraid," he confessed.

"Just you," said Carol. "Not your agent, or manager, or... I guess not a wife." Maybe her skepticism was dissipating.

"Nope. Just me," said Steve.

"Better be worth it, to come all this way for just you."

Steve knew she was joking, relaxing a little, but he felt his shoulders draw in. "I didn't know Natasha asked you to come down. I would've been happy to meet you in Colorado Springs." Nat and Phil and Peggy would not have been happy, of course, and Maria would've yanked him from outdoor batting practice. He couldn't even imagine what Bucky would say to him.

It was a relief when Carol snickered. "Nat's your agent, right? She sounds like she runs your life."

"She does, and I need it. Tunnel vision. Just during the season, I mean. I'm all-in this fight, if you'll have me," he felt the need to blather on. "I can pull my own weight." He wasn't going to pretend weakness — much less do it to stick his name on a project and then burden someone else with all the work. Other guys had spouses and families, he didn't say. Or whine.

"Sleep with your glove on," she said. "Long toss with the ceiling."

"Yeah! Yes. People, you know, outside the game. They don't get it."

"I won't be on the outside for long," said Carol firmly, though there was a glint in her eye that told Steve she'd mellowed to him, or at least to his reasons. 

Steve met her gaze full-on. "Let's make it happen." 

Then his stomach grumbled. Oh, he'd muted his timers. 

Carol gestured, and some fancy lettuce wraps appeared. Steve flushed. "Thanks," he told the server. "Um, that was probably Natasha. Delaying the food. She knows how bad my table manners are."

"Hah. Dig in, Cap." She held back on any comments on watching his figure. (Steve suspected it was mostly men who commented on his physique, which fluctuated throughout the season.)

"Talk shop with our mouths full," Steve suggested, after testing the dipping sauce.

"The only way," agreed Carol. "Get used to it, it's the same in every locker room. You thought about timelines? The WBC is between Olympics years, on top of international play."

"I am bad at timing," Steve admitted. "Timing that's not hitting. Let's, ah," he paused, looked down. Of course Natasha had arrranged for a paper cover on top of the tablecloth. Dishes clattering, Carol took the liberty of clearing a space. Steve contributed a gnawed-up pencil; Carol took one look at its gross condition and knew it as reserved for a matching scorecard. 

"Nowadays I'm a champion at timing," she said breezily. "C'mon, logistics. And remember we don't all have private planes."

"Some of us don't," said Steve, and she snorted. His bike collection was no secret; there wasn't much else to say to a magazine or blog.

Actual drinks arrived. No mystery fruit on the rim of the glass. Nat really had briefed the staff.

"It'll be too late for the likes of Jennie Finch," said Carol.

Steve winced. "I know. She's been talking retirement for a while, with her youth sports foundation. I saw two whole innings of her!" He'd had a bus to catch that time.

"Did you shrivel up just watching?"

"Fuck yeah," Steve said without hesitation. Your life could flash before your eyes, facing that fast-pitch. "Braver than me."

"Thought you liked speed."

"I like my ground game, Cap."

They gushed about Jennie Finch for a while, which got them into softball, which got them into the gritty details. The walls girls ran into: shunted into softball, halting their careers at college, having to pay to play, the pay gap in general (as much as Steve squirmed). She asked him about the Dodgers locker room. He asked her about running with the torch. They gushed over Mo'ne Davis, and jealously bemoaned how much better the Japanese women players were.

She teased him about the Jolly Roger lift. "I was impressed, Rogers. I quit my cheerleading squad," she said. "The skirts were shorter than the school dress code." She let out a short laugh at the face he made.

"The dance team were my godmothers. One venue, they showed me the ruler and let me toss it in the trash."

"Did it land?"

"Don't make me answer that."

She smirked. "The dance team, huh?"

Steve sighed heavily. This was probably going to get out anyway. He relented with a few stories of the Star Spangled Singers. 

As the salmon arrived, Carol pushed to get a jump on potential plans. "Ballpark estimates."

"Very funny."

They both left elbow marks on the paper. The server was very, very nice offering to fold up their diagrams. Carol took a photo of it. Then the server and the chef came out, and there was another round of photos, which would probably end up on social media courtesy of their respective publicists.

"Speaking of timing," Carol said, rising.

Steve wasn't suprised by the abruptness. They had places to be. "We'll get the ball rolling," he said as they wound around the tables.

"I'd like a woman to break in who's not seven feet tall or floating a knuckleball."

"Jesus, I hope not. My average would crash into the basement. Besides, we can avoid a Josh Gibson trainwreck if the WBC gambit works."

"Looking forward to it. Cap," she said as a farewell. She punched his shoulder.

Steve laughed. "Cap," he replied. "Don't be a stranger."

"Easier with your number," Carol said.

"Oh! Phone. Yeah. Here, hang on. I'm terrible at answering—"

"No kidding, so am I."

◇

Steve logged some time with Maria — they still didn't chat much, but now the he knew she was friends with Nat, formalities were now weird — and then some more time in the video room. He quickly copped to what she was doing. Maria had reputation as a hands-off hitting coach. Some haters around the league said she didn't do much, griping that got louder every time a batter hit a rough patch, or the lineup failed to string together hits. What she did, usually, was watch the hitters like a hawk and suggest adjustments in approach which ended up making all the difference. And then fade into the shadows, clipboard and radar gun on her hip. The rookies saw more of her than the veteran hitters who already had a handle on their swing.

Today she was decidedly hands-on. 

"In Colorado?" Steve couldn't help asking.

"Best place for it," Maria said, not taking her eyes off the playback. "All the pressure is on the pitchers. Everyone's confident. Over-confident, in some cases. It's harder to get changes to take when you're panicking that you'll go 0-for-4 till the day you turn in your glove."

Steve wondered if that was aimed at him, somehow. Before he could do something foolish like actually ask, she inquired about his meet-up with Carol. Steve ended up spilling the whole story. He thought at first they knew each other, then gathered that she'd heard of her from someone else. By the end of his ramble, he got an inkling that she was a fan. Then he could kick himself; of course she was a fan of Danvers, who wouldn't be? 

At least she didn't ask about Batroc. Apparently that was still trending, mostly because Georges had added legs to the story by tweeting or vining additional reaction. Steve wasn't going to look. Particularly if Georges was as big a fan as Nat said. 

Unfortunately Steve's off-day presence in the ballpark also got around. Victor was supposed to be here, because the mess of a schedule had him pitching again tomorrow. But then a couple of rookies showed up, and lingered, and then panicked texts started appearing on people's phones. Steve realized he was being a too much of a role model, and packed up to leave. 

"_Steve_," Maria said sharply. "Sunblock."

"It was one time! The elevator got stuck and I had to jet." And that's how he got stuck in traffic without his bag, and then got burned so bad that the next day he looked like a bad case of road rash. A story which everyone in the clubhouse knew. 

Except for the rookies in the hall. Maria called, "Phil isn't paid to strip the skin off your nose," and dutifully Steve doubled back to training room to break out a new tube. He tried not to feel guilty about that; by the end of the series their whole supply of sunblock would be used up. Also the rookies right behind him would be slathering it on two minutes after he left.

He took a cab like he was supposed to, telling himself he could take the free time to think about a strongly worded letter to the IBF.

Bucky slogged into their room well past dinnertime. He spared a look at Steve actually using the hotel's wooden desk, buried in a pile of hotel stationery, and slogged past without comment. Steve absently noted that he smelled less like fish and more like beer hops.

It was when he got out of the shower that Steve glanced up. "Buck! You should take care of that."

Bucky clutched his towel. He looked startled, like he hadn't seen the mountain view before. Which was odd, since he'd played here.

Steve was annoyed at international baseball and not Bucky, but it came out peeved anyway. "You. Rolling your shoulders."

Subconsciously compelled, Bucky's shoulders shed rivulets of water as he shrugged again. There was the wince. "It doesn't hurt much."

Steve nearly said he'd tattle on him to Winnie, then remembered he hadn't called her yet. Ohgod. And here he was, about to bring up the injury. Here. In Colorado. He still didn't have the whole story on that. Making an effort to gentle his tone, Steve said, "Come get that worked over." Bucky blinked at him. Stilling in the middle of the room like he was waiting for the pitch. "Phil and his team are really good. He's been through PT himself, so he knows what he's doing."

"Oh," said Bucky. He was close enough now that Steve could see his goosebumps. "You mean a massage."

"You threw all those pick-offs and then fucked off into the mountains," said Steve. He tipped his head up at Bucky, then rested it on his palm, elbow on the stack of discarded drafts. "Hit the training room early. You're making me ache just looking at you, c'mere."

"Told you, a little mountain stream's not gonna beat me." Nevertheless Bucky shuffled even closer. He went with it as Steve turned him around in place. Still seated, Steve braced his elbow (so he didn't get injured either), located the muscle group, and pushed up into the tension of Bucky's throwing shoulder. 

"Aah," said Bucky. His neck muscles tensed like he was clenching his jaw. 

"Tell me if it pinches, asshole," Steve said mildly. "I don't want to fuck up your nerves." 

"Why're you even, then?"

"I told you, you're making my teeth hurt. Relax."

After about a minute, Bucky did relax. They paused to toss a towel on his wet hair; Bucky freaked out for a second that he'd dripped on Steve's work, but was assured that they were all junk drafts. He didn't ask if Bucky was cold; he always ran hot, a little chill never bothered him. 

It was kind of meditative, doing this for someone else. Sarah had been way too much like him, and resisted what she saw as pampering unless it was the actual physical therapist treating her. On the flip side, Phil had eventually picked up that Steve wanted to know all the intricacies of, well, anything he was involved with, and moreso for anything being done to him. So Phil explained everything. Sometimes with flowcharts. Steve couldn't name off the muscles, but he could figure out how to do this for someone else.

That, and sometimes Peggy was a sucker for neck rubs. Steve and Tony seemed to be the only ones stepping up for that, and that was mostly Tony, as though somehow she'd yell at him less.

Steve hadn't seen Bucky's bare back in a long time. He'd clearly worked over different muscles since becoming a backstop. That, and they had both gotten older. Some ballplayers grew into their strength. Like their bones settled in their mid- to late-twenties. 

Belatedly he thought he should... make conversation or something. It was quiet but for the hum of the forced air, that final tranquil moment when the crowd held its breath on an 0-2 count. Steve couldn't remember how he'd been with Bucky before. Now, it was like that bubble of stillness came along with his presence, and Steve would find himself inside it. Bucky's skin was warming up. Kind of pinking where Steve touched it. He thought about laying his head right there, between his shoulderblades.

"Did you watch post-game?"

Though Bucky didn't tense up, the air changed between them. Then he glanced back at Steve and nothing had changed. "Pittsburgh?"

"Yeah. I mean—"

"Didn't take the time."

"The flight sucked," Steve allowed.

"You good to go after that?"

"Oh yeah," Steve scoffed. "It's not as bad as the turbulence when we had to divert over the ocean this one time. Fuck, sorry." His palm caught and slid too fast.

"Need some baby oil?"

Steve tried not to pout, because Bucky was right. "You're the third person today who's told me to oil up."

Bucky stiffened up all the way. "Wh—? Huh?"

Steve tried to recall what Phil would say whenever he tensed up on the slab. "Lip balm. Sunblock." He explained.

"Those are not oil!"

"They're a category of oil!"

"We should order something, you wanna order something?" Bucky said somewhat desperately.

Before Steve could reply, a loud wooden thump sounded from the outer hall, enough to make Steve jump. Bucky did too, like a scalded cat; he hustled to his bed and grabbed a shirt.

Through the thin walls came laughter and raised voices. They exchanged glances. Fuck, when had they become _the veteran leadership_? Clint was right, it was like a Dad Batman signal.

When they burst through, Steve going low, Bucky just over his head, they found the bench players and Tony and Rhodey jousting on office chairs. And Steve liked this hotel. It had the cleanest forced-air this side of the ballpark, and they had pressurized tents if needed.

"Stark! So help me, if you—!" Steve ground out.

"You'll what?" Tony snapped. He tossed the baseball to Rhodey, who treacherously knocked it over to the gaggle of call-ups. They fought over it like it was the last baseball in a work-stoppage. 

It was Bucky who answered. He crossed his arms, still wet through the thin tee, and ground out, "If you fuck up Vic's start, _I will fuck you up._"

Everyone in the hallway stopped what they were doing. 

They did know that Victor could be shaky if he didn't get enough sleep. It wasn't like Tony could say anything; arguably the team coddled his whims more than any other single player. 

Some of that showed in Tony's eyes. "Your insurance doesn't cover that."

"Try me," said Bucky. "I back you up when it's your turn, Tony. Don't think that doesn't apply to the rest of this staff."

Something warm unfurled in Steve. He'd never really seen Bucky go... full-on backstop. He'd almost said 'his' staff, but for Rhodey standing right there. Steve bit his lip. This wasn't his business. And he couldn't suggest going out on the town, nor ask if Tony was intoxicated. He suspected Rhodey had already been down that road anyway. Worse yet to hear it from Steve. So he took the pitch.

He did want to see how this would go down, though. Rhodey seemed torn, too, between herding the kids away and watching the show.

Bucky kept talking like he was on the mound and Tony was a spooked rookie. "There are five other gyms in this place."

"It's not as fun. Joy-killer."

But Steve could see Tony was backing down. He caught Rhodey's eye, both restraining themselves. 

Bucky didn't quite leave it be. "See, Steve here needs his beauty sleep," he went on.

"Hey, fuck you," Steve said. Automatically.

It was like they'd never heard him swear before. Maybe not that ... vehemently? They all looked like Steve felt the first time he'd seen a ballplayer dip chaw. Which was ridiculous, it wasn't even in the same park.

Still, the rest of the hallway went glacial.

Except for Tony, who lit up. "I take it back, you are a _joy_. A bottomless pit of joy that keeps on," he made one of his weird hand gestures that never seemed to mean anything, "Giving."

Steve flushed. Bucky did too. "Uh," said Steve. "Good night, guys."

"I had no idea...!" Tony yelled after them.

They retreated to order room service pitas. Steve went back to drafting letters. Bucky nestled in his bed with his playbook and his phone, with which he texted Vic. Victor. There were no more strange noises from the hall. Steve had to be pried off the desk, but to be fair, he was the one who woke back up, found the remote control, and turned off the tv.

◇⚾◇⚾◇

#### Bottom Frame: Lucky Draw 

The next day, Steve got to the ballpark at a decent time. He had a sensible breakfast, feeling vaguely off after so thoroughly disregarding Pepper's careful dietary agenda. She'd explained that she expected them to cut corners on the road, but the last few meals had been unusually hefty. And the eggs were delicious; the chef's grandchild was a fan, and he'd gotten a cool counter-side lesson about cooking at high altitudes. Bucky had broken off early, bagel in hand, presumably to squeeze in extra time with Vic. The day was cloudy, Steve noted, though the forecast said it'd turn into a high sky. Of course it was going to be an uphill battle. Only one thing to do, really. Score a shit-ton more runs than Colorado.

He nodded at Phil, who was busy with the other guys, and strapped up for his pre-game treatment. There was a padded table free, so he copped a sit and got to studying the Rockies' pitching staff. They'd just seen them, but some players had come back from rehab or been called up. There were no changes on their side, unfortunately, which was one more advantage they'd have to overcome.

"Steve! Are you okay!?" 

He blinked, confused, and there was Bucky. 

They'd just seen each other a couple of hours ago. Had something happened? Bizarrely Steve flashed to wondering if he knew Carol too; or, much worse, if this was about someone they were related to...

Bucky looked absolutely stricken. Suddenly breakfast wasn't sitting well.

Phil popped up, startling them both. "It's perfectly normal, Barnes," he said, like he was calming a wild animal. Like this was of greater magnitude than pacifying a spooked starter. "It's at altitude. We're allowed to saturate his blood a certain number of hours before the game."

Steve felt his face starting to heat up under the plastic mask, the straps, the slow waft of pure oxygen into his lungs. He was intimately aware that he and Bucky been in this position before. He fought the urge to cross his arms and... curl up and hide. The table was in the middle of the training room, there was no cover.

Bucky was apologizing. He was blushing, too. Who knew what was showing on Steve's face. Around them, the other players turned their heads; maybe their painfully awkward scenes were old news by now.

"Okay?" Phil asked. He was asking for a status report. Those other players were all queued up for him, waiting for him to do his job. 

Steve gave him a thumbs up. He didn't know what to say. 

Suddenly Luis popped his head in the doorway. "Hey, hey, did your man show you the photos?" There was another awkward pause, where first of all, Steve couldn't take his mask off to answer, and second, neither of them could explain why they hadn't compared notes last night beyond 'We were interrupted by Tony.'

Luis rambled on and right over this bump in the road. His smartphone was thrust under Steve's nose. "I got your photos here! I tell you, Rogers, it was something else trying to measure a fish while it's kicking. No, no, swishing, like they slippery as fuck! Did you set that up? That was purpose, man. Sly moves. You fox, Cap! Tell everybody you don't do pranks. Funny man. Check it out." He was thumbing the screen like he dealt cards. "Your boy got the second biggest fish! He couldn't beat Strongbow, that guy caught a monster with his. Bare. Hands. Can you believe it?" Luis dropped his voice. "We yelled at him not to do it, but he saying it was totally safe."

The screen showed Bucky looking flushed and happy... and wet and cold. He was smiling. Someone, probably Scott, was trying to stretch the discount hardware store tape next to the fish without getting slimed. Half of Clint was on the shore, laughing his ass off.

The present-time Bucky was still awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, and grimacing. He had tensed up all over again. Good thing he was here... for a massage. Of course. Steve wanted to hop on his shoulders till they sank back down from his ears. But he couldn't. He still had a few more minutes to go, and then he'd be a little oxygen-drunk and have to do fast reps during warm-ups. 

Sadly, a bunch of the relievers had trailed Luis and his promise of silly fish pictures, and Phil took it as a sign to execute the next part of the Colorado routine.

"Team," Phil said. His implict command resounded across the room. PB hustled Miles through the doorway. Like baby ducks, the rookies popped their heads in after them. The relief staff appeared from whatever corner they'd staked out. Steve stayed reclined and quietly hated Phil. "This won't take long. A quick reminder to hit the showers _immediately_ after you exit the field, in particular if you're anywhere near the bullpen. Coniferous tree pollen sticks to everything, so turn your equipment over to the clubbies for cleaning. Outfielders, please take your wipes from the bat boys before the shaking hands at the end of the game." 

Steve ought to be grateful to the Colorado bat boys for even bothering. He ought to thank Phil for the nice touch of implying they were going to win this away game. But with the blank look on Bucky's face—

"He means someone's allergic to the forest," someone whispered loudly.

With Steve slouching right there with a breathing mask, it didn't take a statistician to figure out who.

"Wipe the tops of your hats and shoulders," Bruce added. Like he was an expert on Steve's conditions. Which he probably was, he'd been on the team almost as long as Steve, though he hadn't been the closer then. The familiarity of the division meant Bruce, like the other relievers, knew the Denver bullpen like the back of his hand, set in the back of the ballpark behind a dense wall of pine trees.

Steve tried to project that it wasn't _that_ bad. He could've been allergic to Kentucky bluegrass.

Then Phil repeated the entire spiel in Spanish. Which was great, except Steve had to sit there all the longer. "...that's it. Vámonos. Get moving everyone," Phil finished.

The team scattered. Bucky didn't look blank anymore. They didn't say anything else to each other. Luis picked right back where he left off, and talked his way through what seemed like the entirety of his cloud storage. They let him.

◇

Worked up and wired from the oxygen, Steve rushed through his already curtailed stretches to get back to the dugout early. Coming out of the tunnel, the sky opened like a book, and the fresh mountain air was a blanket slipping off the world. And the city's fresh air initiatives, not that Steve was an expert after memorizing those stats for his offseason jaunts into civic life. 

Half a bench away, Bucky's already-painted nails stood out in the oddly filtered light.

There was no reason for it to be awkward, was the thing. They had been through all kinds of ups and downs together.

He was starting to wonder if the ones they'd spent apart were starting to weigh them down.

"Rogers," said Nick quietly. He sidled up. Certainly not here to apologize for the entanglement with Batroc. Despite himself, Steve was intrigued. Nick usually hollered every sentence. 

"Yeah, Nick?"

"Fucked up my wrist." 

Steve stayed still, though his brows climbed. "You... want me to sneak a brace out of Phil's supplies?"

"This is not getting back to Cheese," said Nick firmly.

"Oh." Interesting. There was a running bet as to which one 'Cheese' was. Steve thought Rhodey had won that one. Maybe this revelation was a half-assed apology for the Pirates after all. Steve decided to dig. "May I ask why?"

"You might," Nick grumbled. 

Steve suppressed a little thrill. He tried to catch Bucky's eye, to no avail. Either way, he was milking this; he'd fill Bucky in later.

"C'mon, Nick. I'm not one for blackmail..."

"Okay, okay." Nick relented. "I was cat-sitting."

"Ah." Holy shit! Steve had a terrible poker face. Maybe the oxygen-high had yet to wear off. He struggled to control his face. What could he really say to that? It would only be fair... "Bucky's little sister sat on my elbow, once. Nearly cost us the conference championship." 

"I take it that's not getting back to anyone?" Nick murmured. He didn't even look at Bucky. Like a pro.

"She was really little back then." It had worked out okay, because Steve had gotten to spend more time with his mom, but in his absence Bucky had played it up to squeeze Becca out of all her guilty fretting was worth. Steve still had the pantsless, former-collectors' edition G.I. Joes that had survived Becca twigging to the scheme. She was pretty advanced for her age, at least when it came to giving Bucky a run for it.

Without a word, Nick Fury handed Steve the lineup cards. One for the dugout wall, one to turn over to the umpires before first pitch.

Steve was surprised. "Really? I thought Wilkes did these."

"Peggy can't stand his handwriting. Says it's like a doctor's."

"Wow." He was really confiding, now. Steve thought he knew everything about Peggy. Particularly the dirt; he'd certainly gotten drunk with her enough times. 

"You don't know everything that goes on around here, Rogers. Got your pen ready?"

Steve fumbled for a permanent marker, one usually for autographs. It'd have to be thick and bold. "Yessir."

The lineup was laid flat on the bench, and Nick reverted to type by blocking off sightlines and _reciting the lineup aloud_. Including the positions. As though those could change at any moment. Or Steve would forget where his teammates played! Granted, Peggy could've shuffled things up, but she usually refrained unless she thought it might help the pitcher. The game was steady routine unless you were getting clever or desperate. Steve kept up effortlessly, because he'd rather get caught in a rundown than capitulate to Nick Fury. In the end he only slightly messed up his own position — later he'd blame Batroc for putting his old job in his head — but recovered in time to change it to a legible "6". 

Steve half expected a mini-curtain and a smoke machine to conceal this precious need-to-know information, except Nick simply tacked it to the wall like usual, and not like he was a paranoid secretive spook. 

Victor emerged to head over to the bullpen; Bucky got up to flank him. (If they did attend the pre-game warm-ups, Peggy and the other coaches typically took the tunnels to meet them by the mounds.) As Steve watched them strut off towards those cursed trees, Nick observed that he hadn't been the one to paint Bucky's nails.

How many surprises could Steve take? "I thought you didn't believe in that shit," he told Nick.

"Need all the edges we can get," Nick said mildly.

"It's me or Clint doing Buck's paint," Steve offered. "Won't make a difference."

◇

After the game, Steve alternated between breaking down infield strategy with Victor, and taking pulls of oxygen. In the end, the bullpens had stepped up after both starting pitchers had fallen off. Holding the runner in the fourth inning had been a test of pure verve and skill, and Steve told him so. After all, Peggy had been torn about pulling him in the first place. Hopefully Victor left feeling a bit better about his start. 

Steve had to stay a bit longer. They'd tried to get him hooked to a mask while he slept, before, but it had messed with everything from the way his head hit the pillow to the weird nightmares of crashing fighter planes (which had more to do with Steve's tour of the Air Force Academy, years and years ago).

Steve's phone buzzed while the mask was on. It said... huh. "James - My Bucky" was what the display said. What?

He shoved the mask off. Somewhere, Phil sighed heavily. "Hello? Is this you?"

"'Hello', really? Like you climbed in through the window and forgot whose apartment it was? You're trending. Again."

For a second Steve really thought Natasha had hacked his phone to 'update' the contact list. "Is this—?" 

"No, it's not your stunt with Georges." Something gave Bucky pause, as only Steve would notice, but he recovered fast. "This was a national game."

"Oh? Was it?"

"Yes!" Bucky laughed. "Mom called. The booth got hung up for five minutes on your masterpiece lineup card."

During the interminable pitching change, right. He supposed even the big network ran out of commercials. Old-timey patter to the rescue. "You thought it was pretty?"

Now the pause was pointedly noticeable. "Um. They couldn't figure out who'd done it at first. Because, y'know, Jason."

"Coach Wilkes," Steve agreed. "He does try to write in cursive."

"More like cursive Cyrillic." (Steve wouldn't put it past Bucky to know how to write that, too. Did he speak Russian?) "Anyway, they did some dumb detective work, like they were digging through the national archives or something, and ran back pre-game footage of you..."

"Why am I hearing about this?" Steve said plaintively. He wanted to finish up so Bucky could tell him in person, in their hotel room with the star-strewn view.

"Well, we won," Bucky said in a reasonable tone. "You have to write the next lineup card."

"I thought you didn't believe in this shit!"

"I am at this art store. There's two aisles of crayons except we don't know what'll happen to us if we call them crayons. Artists have knives, man."

Sharp implements? "Is Clint there? Keep an eye on Clint!" Steve pleaded. With just his eyebrows and his grimace, Phil seconded the notion. Couldn't they have sent a clubbie? "That's a lot of trouble for new writing thingies."

"We're getting you a better pen. Rogers," he said, "I need all the luck I can get."

Steve really wanted to argue with him. You made your own luck. But you didn't argue superstition with a ballplayer. Maybe Bucky could talk to Maria, except ... maybe not in Denver. Steve wanted to linger on, talk to whatever hapless rookie had been dragged along, question Bucky if he felt his bat had gone cold, but Phil was crossing his arms at Steve to put the oxygen back on. 

Before he left the ballpark, Steve got a clubbie to rustle up a media guide so he wouldn't screw up anyone's spelling. He had a terrible moment when he forgot whether shortstop was one word or two... and looked that up in the media guide too.

By the time he got back to the room, Bucky was fast asleep. Maybe the mountain air knocked him out. The set of pens sat on the bureau, on top of Steve's drawer. Someone had scraped the price tag off; they looked expensive. Hopefully no one had broken a nail, or broken Clint getting the labels off. If anyone could figure out how to land on the IL with a paint scraper, it was Barton.

As he quietly got ready for bed, he contemplated Bucky's still form, and realized he had looked up Steve's number while he was holding the phone, taking pictures for Natasha. 

Usually Steve hated when his privacy was encroached upon. Teammates knew not to butt in; sometimes even Nat would know to back off. As he rolled himself up like he was in an Army bedroll, all he could think of was Bucky's sleight-of-hand, and 'Wow.' 

Sly, indeed.

◇

"Peggy, did you ice me out of the national post-game?"

"First of all, if I want you out of the way, it's my prerogative to send you off as necessary." She thumbed through a scouting report. Paper files were more secure; at the end of the season, they recycled them into the Dodger Stadium mulch. They probably made coffee cups out of whatever was left after Cooperstown and Dodgertown cleared her desk, which given that it was Peggy Carter, not much. "Secondly, did you want to be in the way?" She glanced up curtly.

"I have a routine," Steve demurred, because she knew the next words out of his mouth were he could do it for the team if it was needed.

"And the insiders are well aware of it. Even that Buster Olney chap. Third of all, I am doing you a favor, because I got the notion that you hadn't precisely planned your merry-go-round with Batroc, and thus hadn't thought of any responses to the most asinine ten tweet questions lobbed from the monkey pit?"

Come to think of it, Nat had been strangely silent on the matter. She'd spent a whole off-season trying to teach him the _Bull Durham_ canned clichés, and he'd spent just as long arguing that it was lying. (At which point she realized he was earnestly that boring.) There'd been no coaching this time. Maybe she'd called Peggy? Compared notes. Or Peggy had simply taken one look at him and guessed that Nat wanted them to deflect. 

Like she was doing now. "Oh, Steve. Did you not notice the big network crew? Goodness knows you recollect all their middle names and their favourite colours." She pushed off her chair and clapped her hands clean. "Never mind that. I want you to focus on your very important role. Absolutely vital."

Sure enough, Wilkes stepped up to hand over the lineup cards to Steve, with a little smirk. It did give Steve something to do while he sucked air, which was a nice bonus. Getting to the park early was definitely in hs wheelhouse, but — having to go easy on his back — the enforced stillness was aggravating. He'd once suggested running on a treadmill. The entire coaching staff had pinned him with their eyes, and Peggy had said tartly 'The Cold War's over, Captain America.' The story had gotten back to Natasha, and after laughing at him, she'd explained how that was very East German of him.

Calligraphy it was.

Unlike most every other pitcher in the game, Luis chattered up a storm before his starts, and tried to get Steve to give him a fancy curlicue, saving the best for last. Steve asked about the squiggle over the 'n', which of course turned into half the clubhouse debating how to say 'eñe'. Which wasn't functionally helpful in the least. There was no choice but to add some flourishes to the capital letters, because if he made Luis's name fancy, he'd have to make every other pitcher's name fancy, sensitive souls as they were. Then he had to repeat the process for the cards they presented to the umps, because they could be touchier than the pitchers.

Luis kept them busy in the infield. Steve was diving for everything. Miles looked a bit like he wanted to switch positions with him, to spare him his back or his feelings or something, but for the fact that he'd painstakingly inked them into the lineup sheet. Luis doffed his cap. "You paint, I paint," he told Steve with a grin. 

Clint had it worse, though. They were turning on 'em early, before Luis switched up his sequences, and that meant lasers right at the gap. Then the hitters adjusted, and Clint went sprinting into not just one, but a string of circus catches. Steve hadn't known he could get air like that. "Holy shit," Scott rather visibly mouthed, after their crossed routes had him vaulting over a rolling Clint. 

Miles and Steve agreed: holy shit.

Good thing, because they weren't hitting much. (Maria was grimacing into her clipboard.) 

And then, bottom of the inning, he came back from the restroom and had barely dried off before Peggy was handing him one of his new pens. 

"You are kidding," Steve nearly whined.

"Oh boy," said Bucky, strapping up, a good five feet away. "You know how to spell Monty's name? His James name."

Peggy simply left them to it, hopping up to point a finger into the pine trees to summon the reliever. 

Steve was momentarily diverted by wondering why Luis wasn't staying in. Hopefully he wasn't achey, or worse yet, hurt. He closed the distance. "Of course I know how to spell it. Did you know his uncle has a peerage? I always thought Dum-Dum made that up."

"I'll tell him you're writing it in." Bucky looked up from checking his shinguards, and shuffled backwards.

"This is not gonna make a difference," Steve muttered under his breath, aware that some camera operator across the park was probably reading his lips with the same eagerness as when they'd obviously perked up at Scott's swear word.

"Steve," said Bucky tetchily. Then he took another step back, studying his face; he sighed. "Make your own luck, I know," and he took off like a shot, jogging to meet Monty. (In the corner of his eye, there was Rhodey sitting back down, after nearly volunteering to catch the warm-up pitches.) Steve felt a twinge. Sarah had always said that. Somewhere along the line, Winnie had picked it up too.

The score was close, late. Colorado threw an soft-tossing middle reliever at them, and getting into his jam and out of it again only stretched out the inning. Then the music out of the loudspeakers changed. The sparse crowd remaining started clapping, taking up a chant. (Steve did not want to know what the dinosaur was supposed to be doing.) Somewhere in the pine forest, the usually idle relievers got off their duffs and paraded to the gate, also clapping. At their head was M'Baku.

They really couldn't help it, they had to watch. Even if he was getting his work in, M'Baku kept up his grim mask as he descended from the cliffs, his fellow pitchers pounding on the fence with their gloves. Steve had it on good authority that Trevor Hoffman was pretty jealous that _his_ bullpens didn't get to their feet. 

It was a treasonous thought, but if M'Baku shut them down, maybe the whole good luck charm story would be broken. 

Of course Steve got his second hit of the night at the top of the ninth: a towering shot into the unlidded sky. Steve was so surprised he had to cover a stumble out of the box with a couple of too-slow slide steps. He was supposed to take it easy anyway, given that the coaches hardly let him run first to third. Oh geez, he hoped M'Baku didn't think he was showing them up with a long gawk and a slow trot. It was hard to tell with Colorado's closer. He stared you down if you were rounding the bases, he stared if you were slinking back to the dugout. (If anyone could _look_ a runner back to first, it was M'Baku.)

Of course the Dodgers spun a four-pitcher stopper.

In the midst of the relieved elation, Clint got up on a couch and waved the lineup sheet in the air. 

Of course Clint nearly fell off, as half the clubhouse whooped, and the other half tried to catch Clint. 

And of course, Steve raised his hand, and calmly caught the errant sheet as it spun towards him.

"I meant to do that!" Clint yelled from behind the couch. Miles nearly uploaded the clip. One of the pitchers turned up the music.

Clint made top ten highlights in national coverage, but it was an open secret that Steve was stuck with the new clubhouse tradition. At least until they started losing.

Phil gave him a lecture on avoiding carpal tunnel. Steve had to sit there and suck oxygen. 

◇ 

Bucky joined him on his second lap up to the Mile High Row. He was brandishing a tube of sunblock. Steve grabbed it before he could get slathered in the face with UV protectant. In a headlock.

"You're not supposed to be up here, are you." It wasn't a question.

"I'm under the line," Steve said, gesturing at the purple seats. 

"What did M'Baku want? I saw him talking to you." The pitcher had rolled up in a ridiculous chariot of a car at their early morning greasy spoon. What a question. It really was too early for Steve to interact with people. Naturally M'Baku knew Bucky. And vice versa. Had they played at the same time? Obviously they had. Bucky had probably caught him. Talked to him. About things other than baseball. "Is he mad about watching the homer?" 

Bucky followed him down the stairs like he wanted to make sure Steve didn't bounce down them while patting on the sunblock with both hands. Geez, he wasn't Clint. "Nah, he laughed about that. He's a closer, y'know? Yesterday's yesterday, turn the page. He wanted to recommend the vegan options around here," Bucky told him.

Steve had no idea how to take that.

"Come on, I'm here to bring you back down to Earth," Bucky said. "Your agent—"

"Not you too!" Steve bumped shoulders with him, half-amused that Nat was collecting all his friends. Or already knew them from another life. 

"She called me out of the blue. How she got my number..."

So it wasn't just Steve. "Who knows? Contacts in Ukraine basketball. Skydivers with cameras. Your mom."

Bucky did nearly nudge him down the stairs. "Between them I was tipped off to the peanuts-free section. Word is there's kids." Bucky eyed him. "You can handle that?"

Steve shrugged. He wasn't that bad with younger fans, anymore. "Coming with?"

"They don't want _my_ autograph."

Steve was not going to argue. "No problem. And yeah, this is Nat's way of prepping me for the post-Pirates thing."

"Is it?" Bucky sounded a little dazed.

"Yup. That's Natasha for you." Steve skittered down the stairs, trusting Bucky to follow. He was patting sunblock on, too, so while he wasn't as accident-prone as Clint, in that eventuality Bucky might make a grab for him.

"What'd she have to say about Batroc?"

"Georges?" Steve asked, then wondered why Bucky twitched a little. Everybody had history, he supposed. He hadn't asked. Speaking of history, for some reason it didn't seem like the right time to mention Georges's Cap collection. "She mostly checked me. The usual. Frisk me for signs of going off the deep end."

"I can't believe we went through that whole thing to avoid a Bob Costas moment, and you turned around and got yourself trending for the rest of all time."

Steve nearly did miss the next step. "Fuck, I'm sorry. You went through all that trouble—"

Bucky laughed. "Over a sandwich! It was worth it. Why'd you even go along with it?"

His eyes were bright and curious, and Steve released the answer, easy as long toss. "He dared me." More or less. The kindred baseman thing was kinda weird.

"Steve!" Bucky threw an elbow. Steve dodged it automatically, no tripping from years of practice. "It's a good thing you're not a call-up. The rest of the league would hoist you up a, uh," his sentence halted. He watched where he was going. "Figuring they can lay their hands on you."

"Even if I didn't knock them out, Peggy would." Steve paused. "Then she'd send me down to Double A."

"She would even if you weren't a rookie."

"What does... I mean, how's it going down with everyone else? Around the circuit." Steve flushed a little. Bucky had just gotten to this league. Though it wasn't rational to feel left out of the gossip while staying off social media. What, it'd show up by virtue of being a veteran? It was illogical, it was just a Hollywood state of mind.

"Like us lifers don't get up to weird shit," said Bucky. The offhand phrase warmed Steve up from his core: they were ballplayers for life. That'd never get old. "Mostly they're shocked it's you. It's a good look," he assured. "Loosens you up from the straitlaced Cap deal."

There were too many ways to respond to that. The clouds were high and fluffy, and the grass was striped a miraculous green, so Steve opted to enjoy the good company.

Sure enough, there was a small gathering in a roped-off section. Luis and Jason joined them about halfway through. Bucky had the forethought to grab the new pens; more than one kid wanted to know if those were the very same lucky pens. Steve tried to remind them to do their drills instead of ... whatever the kids did these days instead of rabbits-feet. (He tried to remind himself that Bucky'd had a poster of Ozzie Smith "The Wizard!" that he'd slap for luck, and that wasn't all that different from lifesized peel-and-stick vinyl decals.) Luis spoiled the effect by coaxing one grade-schooler to get his face painted.

Steve hesitated. 'These kids have sensitivities, are these pens nontoxic?' He signaled with his eyes. 

Bucky stepped in, projecting a general air of assurance: 'Yes, I read the box, doofus.' Confident that Bucky had been excessively trained after picking up after Steve's many ailments, they both tried to project confidence to the now somewhat perturbed family. There was no stopping the kid once he knew what he wanted, his plaintive little face with blank cheek puffed up in their direction. They folded like cheap lawn chairs. Steve ended up dashing off a small baseball diamond.

Laughing at him with his eyes, Steve figured Bucky had caught him: he'd been conditioned to draw all those spray charts. 

"That was cool," Steve remarked afterwards. "I should talk to the front office about a dedicated peanut-free section."

"Of course you will," said Jason, amused.

"It's not bad for a new stadium," said Bucky thoughtfully. "Even if they tried to copy Ebbets Field."

"They did that on purpose?!" Steve said.

Luis chuckled. "If you wanna call turn-of-the-century urban neo-classical a copy, I mean, man, everybody went retro in the Nineties. Hey," he consoled Steve, "It's easy to miss with all the square windows and the Native American details. Brooklyn didn't have solid stone like this baby."

"I thought I imagined those," Jason burst out. "They planned it that way?"

"The energy's tight, right? Sick. You wanna check it out? Let's check it out." With that, they veered off to find a tour guide. Steve shouldn't have been surprised. Luis eventually got into every subject under the sun. He probably indulged Steve his rambling lectures. 

On the way back to the locker room, Steve got a text. It was Carol.

Steve stopped dead. "Oh my God." He turned to Bucky. "'Photon got wind of this and said we should talk to Peanut.' Dude, Maria Rambeau knows who I am."

"Steve, everybody knows who you... Dude. Maria Rambeau just gave you Mamie Johnson's number."

To his shame he'd never considered asking after her. The old folks usually called him. Or Natasha called on their behalf. He started to type a text to Natasha. "We just came from the peanuts-free section," Steve said, reeling. 

"There are no coincidences in baseball," said Bucky.

"There are too! It's a large sample size!" Steve glanced up. "What if I make a fool of myself with her?"

"How do you talk to Hank Aaron, and still be nervous around anybody."

"Henry is a fielder, we have stuff to talk about. I forget to be nervous," Steve admitted. Heck, Peggy still intimidated him. "Oh no, she played with him, didn't she? I should've asked him."

"So you're only nervous around pitchers. Is it the glove? Does it confuse you not to have a cup-holder for a mitt?"

"You had a cup-holder," Steve shot back automatically. "Peanut Johnson could probably strike me out." He whispered like someone could be listening, and updating their scouting report. 

"Why don't you bring your pal Sam," said Bucky.

"Good idea. Does she still live in the DC area? Sam has a house there."

Bucky was pursing his lips. "...I think Ms Johnson was a nurse. There's that."

"Yeah yeah yeah," Steve agreed. He was busy trying not to hand Natasha more fodder. She liked to smirk at his freak-outs in the moments before she swung in to fix them. Carol was texting again; it looked like she was bouncing off the walls, too, which made Steve feel a little better about his inner flailing. "Why didn't I figure out Photon knows her? Did you see their triple play? In the Olympics?"

"Steve, it was in Toronto," Bucky said patiently. He steered Steve by the elbow while he texted back.

"...wait, you saw it live?!"

◇

They had a different schedule for the getaway day, with everything lurched forward. Even the air seemed different. The sky looked amazing. Steve got out of treatments early, got his stretching out of the way in shallow outfield with the view of the clouds. He was glad their outfield was working extra hard to gobble up the pop flies because he'd rather watch this gliding palette than try to catch a ball against it. 

When he got down to the dugout, Bucky was there suiting up. Thor was still taking batting practice, talking earnestly with Coach Hill beside the cages. Coach Fury was looming as usual. His hands were locked behind his back like he was trying to be intimidating; Steve tried not to laugh. Despite himself he really wanted to know how he'd injured his wrist. 

"You filling it out?" Bucky asked.

"Already turned in," Steve said. "I made a hammer to start Thor's name. I hope it doesn't look like a dick." Not that Thor would mind. Steve was already anticipating the paparazzi barrage once they got back to L.A.

"You're hoping Carter has white-out in case it does, huh."

"Yup." Steve watched Bucky armor up. Tentatively he said, "Do you want me to do your nails?"

Bucky looked tentative too. "It's not gonna, uh. I mean, the fumes."

"It's fine." Steve sat down beside him. The clouds scudded by. "Guess it freaked you out, huh?"

"Nnngh." Bucky got the nail polish out anyway. He didn't meet Steve's eyes.

"My lungs are fine," Steve said. He hitched up a little and patted his knee. Dutifully Bucky flattened his palm on it. "I'm not doing nail art. I'm not paid enough to decorate you."

"Fuck you. I'm gonna add it to my perks. Steve Rogers original words." 

"The staff would yank you around so fast," Steve predicted. 

"Yeah, probably," said Bucky, and he held very still.

◇

An hour before first pitch, the air lifted and thinned, and it wasn't just Steve's imagination. Heimdall greeted them with the news. The weather was going to take a downturn in a few hours. Hopefully they'd get the game in, but unless they wanted to take a train through the mountains, they were waiting on a morning flight once the front cleared.

This was not necessarily bad news.

Their skipper stood up directly after.

"Gents, I wish to remind all of you of the potent effect of alcohol at high altitudes," said Peggy, exaggerating her most posh accent. 

"That's real?"

"Don't you recall Tequila Night?" said Peggy.

"....no....?"

"Exactly," Peggy replied, and the clubhouse roared. "Do watch out for each other, and don't miss the flight!"

"Jimjams!" cried Jimmy Morita. "If we win, we're crawling!"

"If we lose this contest," declared Thor where he was getting ready to march to the bullpen, "I shall pick up the tab for thine efforts!"

"Don't pitch hasty, for heaven's sake," Peggy interjected. "Barnes, make sure he's not racing the storm."

"Yes, ma'am," Bucky replied. "Pack your wallets, Thor's broke," Bucky told everyone else, and collected a high-five from Jimmy as those in earshot laughed.

Steve's heart sank. Going drinking at altitude, and before a long flight? Not an option. 

He did have to pack. He did have a brand new set of pens, and there were letters to write. 

"Sell his bling!" Hector called out, waving his shades, and Steve tried to crack a smile.

The Rockies pitched like they didn't have a plane to catch. They kept throwing out of the zone, wary of Steve's power surge. And Thor's too — this was one of his favorite parks to hit in. Steve retaliated by dragging out his plate appearances, running their starter's pitch count up. The dinosaur mascot mocked him the whole game. Dance moves, reading glasses, chisel and a fake boulder. Maybe the Rox were all for terrible puns but not cursive penmanship. Obligingly Steve sat at the end of the bench so the camera would catch him and the lineup in the same shot.

About five minutes in, he realized Bucky had been steering clear of him come gametime because he'd caught bullpens in the pine forest. Huh. 

They broke it open a middle inning; that was all they needed. The wind picked up, and the Denver offense didn't. At one point, Thor caught a return ball from Bucky just as thunder cracked through. He turned the backswing into an exaggerated wind-up like a lightning rod. Talk about tempting fate. (Or a balk.) 

The score held, though. Steve bounced on his heels, jittery, hurriedly toweling off a sheen of chilled sweat. They'd swept Colorado in their own house, damn. Only a sliver of propriety kept them from chanting _sweep_ while they were still in said house. Thor was the one clattered through the double doors to the cries of "Happy flight!" No matter the weather, everyone was bubbly and giddy for the flight that wouldn't be for hours to come. Ready to go home.

Steve took his treatment in the corner, in his street clothes. He listened in on the rest of the team as they circled up and plotted their unexpected free night. They were all freshly showered. It was nice of them to flush out Steve's allergens even though he'd be well out of the way. Luke seemed to be in charge. With a few exceptions, first basemen were the bartenders of the Majors. 

"The taphouse is right there," Luke was saying.

"Oh please," came Bucky's voice. "You know where they brew that? Montreal."

"They do not," said Tony, contrarily. "It's award-winning Belgian beer developed here. It's literally brewed here in the building."

"Belgian style," corrected Luke, like Tony was questioning his expertise. "On tap in-house. Don't know where they make it for real."

"It's some big company brand," said Scott.

There was a pause, then Clint broke in with his nosy voice. "Oh, yeah, text Marc! He's cool. A little weird but cool."

"I didn't come all this way for Montreal water," said Bucky.

"Tell Marc hi from Hawkeye," said Clint.

"He says the Belgians sued them. And it's brewed in Canada."

"Boom! Yah!" Scott burst out.

"Homie, what was that," Luis laughed.

"Nevermind, I know just the place," said Bucky.

Before anyone could gainsay him, Thor declared, "As the victorious hurler, I say we go with my valiant battery mate!" 

"It's some random hole in the wall, isn't it," said Tony.

Unusually, Rhodey took the other side. "Like the last time you dragged us to a random rotisserie palace. And didn't invite me." He was kidding around, though, and Tony cued up his groveling.

That seemed to tip it in favor of Bucky's destination. There was a lot of shuffling and rustling and a lot of the clubbies zipping around to finish loading up. It was good for the team to hit the town, together. They were a good bunch. And Bucky had hit so many rough patches out here, he deserved a nice night out. A good memory of Colorado. Steve had to sleep early anyway, to be a less blurry for the flight. 

Then someone said, "Miles, you too!" and whoa, hit the brakes! Steve waited for PB to say something, for anyone else, and nada. Miles was coming with them? Steve started ripping the equipment off, barely remember to turn the oxygen off. 

He barreled out into the long corridor ... only to run smack into Bucky.

"Where's the fire?" Bucky said.

"You're taking Morales drinking?" Steve bit out, quietly as he could.

"Nah, we're not drinking," said Bucky. His eyes were dancing. He had both Steve's elbows in hand, himself already bundled up in a thick windbreaker: nondescript brown, half open, and lined with red flannel. 

"Where are you going?" said Steve. 

"You'll see," said Bucky. He looked at Steve, and said, "You're coming, too. We're not leaving without you."

Steve felt a little oxygen-high. "Not drinking?"

"There's booze, but you don't have to," said Bucky.

"Okay," said Steve. 

◇

They _walked_, not far, except it was a stroll through gusts of wet tissue wind. Bucky stepped into the wind ahead of Steve, who reluctantly admitted the place wasn't far from the ballpark at all. The storefront was nestled in an oddly shaped lot along a busy intersection. They jaywalked, of course. Steve scurried along near the center of the group, feeling a bit like a baby penguin in the middle of an antarctic winter.

A bell chimed over the entrance, and Steve's first impression crossing into the steamy indoor air was of a long bakery case. It was stocked full of pastries that looked glistened with a finish that was nearly confectionary. Steve blinked. A dessert bar?

For a second, there didn't seem to be enough chairs. Then there were. It seemed someone with more foresight than Steve had used a real live telephone and called ahead. The teammates who'd come along crammed into the space. It was reminiscent of the minor leagues: trooping to the nearest greasy spoon in the middle of the night with all the waitstaff expecting them. 

Steve was wedged between the wall and Bucky. He didn't mind. He wasn't even shivering anymore. 

Their server popped up and crisply recited the menu. Luis muttered a few words in edgewise, then was pleasantly surprised when the server switched to Spanish to answer their questions. This was a white-smock chef sort of place, and Steve prepared himself for real silverware and swirls of sauces. He craned past Bucky to spy on the glass case up front. Yeah, cookies and pastries and piles of sculptural cream. Fancy. French. Was that why Bucky liked this place? If not for the cheerful buzz of his team, he'd have felt a little underdressed.

"No sandwiches this time?" Bucky asked. Steve jabbed him on the good arm. They shared a menu as half the team did order sandwiches. Miles tried to pick something different, but PB intervened and quietly explained it was easier to prep the same order for a dozen guys. At this point Thor ordered a gigantic mug of coffee and it appeared as though summoned: adorned in cupcakes and nearly as big as his bicep. Everyone groaned as Thor chugged away; he was going to be a live wire all night. (Miles stopped shriveling up in mortification.)

There was a little hiccup when they ran out of sandwich fixings, but the chef, who was being flirted with from at least three directions, produced an actual beef wellington for Thor, and some kind of short-rib filled pasta for the rest of the carnivores. Steve nearly texted Peggy to ask if what was happening to pastry-wrapped roast was legal. The rest of the chaos was wrapped up in ordering desserts. Platters of little cream cookies — _macarons_, Bucky whispered, _you gotta be kidding me, Steve_ — circulated as the cooks assembled dishes in front of them. The chef jokingly offered a lavender dessert, and they roared back at him like it was the locker room, chanting for _Dodger blue_ in about three languages as far as Steve could discern. Tony tried to foist a kind of apple pie on Steve, which got Bucky good-naturedly deflecting on his behalf. Tony tried again with the banana dessert, and this time Bucky and Steve chorused _No!_ In the general melee, Steve was able to quietly order the sandwich for Miles, to be wrapped up in a to-go bag. The pasta arrived. Other plates arrived, mostly with mushrooms in them, and once this was discovered, the dick jokes sprang up from every corner.

Steve and Rhodey (and increasingly Jason) were the ones who usually broke up their little riots, but this time they let it flow. No harm done. It was late, they were practically the only customers. The chef was encouraging their buoyant tumult. Steve watched the entertainment for once, huddled in his corner. Every so often Bucky would shift his weight, crinkling the well-padded coat he hadn't taken off. Once the desserts arrived, the noise mercifully dropped to a dull roar. Bobby and Hector were chattering excitedly over this coconut wrap thingy; Tony was battling a giant donut; Scott had gathered a crowd as he faced off against a big white beehive which did happen to have a honey creation in the center. 

He barely realized Bucky ordered for him till one of the chocolate creations seemed to float over to their corner. It was _huge_. Nearby teammates began to cheer. "I can't eat all that!" Steve protested.

"You're not allergic to anything in it," Bucky said in confusion. 

Then two spoons appeared by the dish. The server hovered with a little jug. "Oh. We're sharing?"

Tony called over, "That the Rocky Mountain oyster!?"

The chef laughed along. "Those aren't in season, Mr. Stark. It's a solid chocolate sphere with a surprise inside." As though compelled, he added, "Strawberries, brownie bites, and vanilla mascarpone on the plate." The assistant ... the sous chef glanced up, pleased by the acknowledgment.

Bucky was frowning. That was not good. He had a hand up at the server. "Did you not want to share?"

"No! Of course we'll share!" Steve said. He blinked at him. "Gimme a break."

Bucky relaxed.

"Show us your balls!" Tony demanded.

Thor joined in. "Let us see this magic!" 

To oblige the server contorted around Steve and Bucky in such a way that made Steve feel like a tool, but then the jug of hot caramel tipped over the chocolate and the whole table began to _ooooh_.

"Holy crap," Bucky said.

Steve had studied the whole assembly process, so he wasn't surprised per se. He watched Bucky gawk at the marshmallows, candied nuts, and even more brownies tumbling out of the melting sphere. 

Applause broke out. 

"Was that for me or for you?" Steve grinned.

"It's for us," Bucky declared, grabbing a spoon. They dueled for the first bite, but it was too delectable not to dig in right away. Around them, the team became determined to clean the place out of desserts.

It was almost too sweet. Bucky was the one with the sweet tooth, so he plowed through. He nudged the strawberries over to Steve, like it was a Disney movie; Steve had to admit the tartness did help.

Another chant kicked up; apparently some of the macarons were purple, too. Tony and Bruce switched chairs around to discuss very seriously the possibilities of blueberries for a blue dessert. Even the frazzled relief pitchers were dialing down. Must've been hard up there in the forest. 

The oxygen high was fading off. The sharp thrill of the win had settled. Steve smiled over at Bucky, laughing a little at the caramel on his lips. "This was good, Buck."

"Yeah?" Bucky brightened. 

Steve hoped he hadn't felt down before, because he looked about five years younger. Or maybe ... softened after all that icy glaring under the mask. "Pepper will ream out the whole team instead of just us."

"She's classier than that. She'll just go after Tony."

"Mmmph. You noticed that, too, huh."

"I notice stuff. My boys." 

Bucky ducked a little as he swirled a mouthful of cream and chocolate. Steve scuffed him, except since the rest of him was occupied, with his cheek on the puffy shoulder of his coat. 

There was the inevitable round of autographs — Tony was simultaneously glomming all the tips into one gigantic tip because they were classy like that — and Steve volunteered his new pens. There was a surprising volley of objections to using the 'lucky' pens.

"The luck doesn't come from _me_," Steve raised his voice. Before anyone could freak out at him for not getting superstitions, he said, "It's our team. These are _team pens_. We all go to the post. We all put our names on the lineup."

Everyone awww'd.

"Fuck you, Rogers, you turned it into an inspirational fucking speech," said Tony. He grabbed a pen along with everyone else. (The chef winked like he knew how much bullshit that was, and was grateful that Steve had now set up an entire baseball team's worth of autographs. Which would probably turn into all their home team showing up to autograph something, once it got out into the rumor mill, not to be outdone.)

"Nice," said Bucky. "I'm inspired."

"Shuttup," said Steve, eating a strawberry to cover mild chagrin. 

◇ 

They walked back to the hotel. They had to pass the gauntlet of objections that they were cruising for a mugging, and were urged to call a ride. But they'd lived rougher, younger, and they also weren't overloaded with bling. They looked dressed for the weather. Steve turned it around and admonished the group not to get into any trouble as they headed off to hit up more nightspots, or he'd tell the plane to take off without them.

The streets were crowded, too. Steve was nursing the complimentary hot chocolate. Bucky was sticking close, so he wasn't cold. 

Bucky was really fitting in. Steve was so glad. 

He bet he'd be glad to get out of Denver, though.

Steve screwed up his courage to say as much. Out loud.

Bucky didn't stiffen, but he didn't look over either. "Is it weird that I can't remember much? It was ... a bad time. Not bad-bad, I mean other people have it worse, geez. Getting to play in the Show, play a game for little kids."

"It was still bad for you." Steve felt a pang of regret. Guilt. He should've been there for his friend.

"I mean, on the field it wasn't bad," said Bucky. He accepted the gentle shove from Steve. "It was just that, uh, I went into arbitration, is the thing."

Steve winced. "Ooh. Ouch."

"You're there, pinned to your seat, in front of everybody you know. Everybody you think of as part of your own team, and they blast you with everything that's wrong with you. And you know they could give you your due, but here's all kinds of charts and screens and science shit that says why they won't. I mean, I figured. I wasn't ready for the real deal."

Steve kind of thought his agent should've prepared him. Or the Rockies could've been nicer. Then again, he'd never been to arbitration. He was too valuable on the field. To the organization as a whole.

Bucky went on, "So here I am, I don't really know what I'm gonna do, what my role is. We were still working it out, and I didn't know _if_ it was going to work out, if I was gonna make it, or have to bail out on my career entirely. Mentally I'm wiped, you know? Like I got smeared on the side of the mountain—and now they gotta do tests. To settle the dispute."

"Physical? All over again?"

"Yeah. Blood tests and everything. So many needles." Bucky sighed. "Which wouldn't have been... I mean, it was just a lot. I had to get an MRI. I freaked out in the tube."

"Buck."

"Yeah. That was bad," Bucky relented. Steve offered his hot chocolate, and Bucky took it. "I almost called my mom. Then they wouldn't explain what all was on the monitors, because I was freaking out—"

"Shit."

"—only that's just my whole life. Thrown up there on the screen for all the docs to stare at. I could look at a picture of my insides, and I wasn't allowed to understand." 

"Like it's out of your hands."

"Mmm, yeah." Bucky took a sip. He was holding the cup like he always did, clapping it in place with two hands. The cold couldn't be good for him. But he leaned a little into Steve, and Steve welcomed it. "It wasn't bad on the field. Man, it's beautiful playing here. It was just a weird time."

Steve swallowed. They walked half a block before he said, "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

"You couldn't have known," Bucky said serenely. "I _didn't_ call, okay? Not even Becca. Then I got wrapped up in pickin' up my tools of ignorance. This game is for the long haul; I know you get that better than anybody."

"We give it everything. Then it asks for more."

"Both of us could walk tomorrow and it wouldn't make a difference in our state of being. I stayed, yeah," and before Steve could protest his self-deprecating tone, he said, "You stay, too. No questioning it, even if it grinds us up and spits us out."

Steve met his gaze, and nodded.

They loved this game.

They walked on past the knots of friends, and the couples. A few obvious families. 

"...what am I gonna say to Ms Johnson?"

"You are fucked."

"I am! She's an _icon_. Buck O'Neil would've laughed his butt off." Carol was going to be abroad. She was counting on him.

"You hanging out with other Bucks!" He knew how much Steve missed the old man. 

"I'm two-timing you."

Bucky's laugh was a little quavery. Not a shock after spilling his guts like that. It had to be good, though, to talk about it, Steve mused. After a barely-there pause, Bucky said, "You're a little shit. Ask Wilson what kind of gift she'd like."

"I can think of a gift!" Steve had been planning to ask Natasha. 

"Surrreee. How about Skip, ask her."

"Oh my God, Peggy must know her. She's definitely gonna laugh. Or put me through the wringer."

"You're unbelievable. How do you know all these people and be tongue-tied around 'em?"

That was uncomfortably close to Steve's private fretfulness. "You jealous?" he tossed back. 

"What if I am," Bucky said mildly.

"You know people," Steve said. "You do." He pressed their arms together. "Hit me up. You got my number." He wouldn't come up empty with Bucky, he thought. He could do that. Next time.

"Yeah," said Bucky. "Guess I do."

  
  


◇ inning closed ◇ 

JUMP: Back to 1 ◇ Back to 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People used to be head-down in their scorecards, not their smartphones, and I am a freak who buys them at the ballpark (our cover art is neat, and I'd forget game details otherwise). I am not a freak who custom-makes their own scorecard. Or ledgers of scorecards. Basic examples list every player in the lineups, crossed by columns of the innings, and every box = plate appearance is recorded with a diamond with a note in the middle. Rows of PLAYER | ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ (...) If the defense does something, they're usually numbered in order, with the pitcher as "1" and SO CONFUSINGLY the 1st baseman as "3" and so on till the right fielder at "9". (That's why catchers will yell FOUR FOUR FOUR when they're pointing in the direction of *second base*.) Redacted is a whole tutorial on scorecards; that may come back later.
> 
> The joke is there's baseball in London. ◇ Battery = pitcher and catcher tandem. ◇ Call-up is noun or verb for a promotion from the minor leagues to the majors. ◇ A fast-pitch in softball is the windmill style motion which in the hands of a legend like Jennie Finch can shoot at you at 70mph except next to *your face*. Ie from 43 feet away or less. Your life will flash before your eyes. ◇ Stringing together hits is the sweet-spot of lineup construction. Sounds basic, but it's not that easy to make up a rolling list of batters who'll get on base (and score) off a pitcher consecutively. ◇ Chewing tobacco is a filthy, dangerous habit that persisted in the game for far too long. ◇ Referencing a famous story during the strike of the 1990s, when some of the union guys (now Hall-of-Famers) played catch in a hotel hallway. Shenanigans these days = smartphone + ding dong ditch. ◇ For non-USA / non-sports peeps, post-game is (possibly regional) short-hand for the post-game press Q&A, which is usually conducted in the locker room itself, as opposed to the podium or table in the set with a backdrop. We've already had that scene, but it bears mentioning how optional clothing used to be back in the day. Nowadays dudes throw on a t-shirt, or are fashion plates, or we find out who wears camo.
> 
> ◇ A purpose pitch is one that looks like it misses its spot, but is in reality on purpose, to get into a batter's head that the pitcher missed and the next one is coming on that side of the plate. It is one of the hardest things to catch as a spectator, and is top tier brilliant. Luis is saying Steve was playing mind-games. ◇ Y'all thought the pine tree forest in Colorado was so weird, it became a meme. ◇ Speaking of handwriting, Don Wakamatsu and Jerry Narron are among those renowned for their lineup card calligraphy. Search 'em! ◇ Pitchers are usually last in the lineup, or sometimes in some strategic fanciness eighth, as their batting average is usually lowest on the team. A pitcher hitting .200 is considered pretty good. There's all kinds of ways to arrange those tactics, but the basic logic is the lowest-place hitters see the fewest plate appearances, since there's three outs per inning (thus the entire lineup seldom cycles through before those three outs occur, and so on through the innings.) ◇ The less I say about the broadcasting deals, the less I blow up in rants. Some games are televised nationally... unless there's a blackout rule. *spits* ◇ Bull Durham is yet another classic baseball movie with Kevin Costner in it. (Susan Sarandon is amazin'.) The Durham Bulls are real; the interview cliché thing is so real. ◇ 'Painting' is scattering pitches around the edges of the box, barely fair, to stymie the batter. ◇ Getting work in. Relief pitchers sitting cold for too long can 'get rusty' so sometimes they're put in a game more to keep them sharp. ◇ Watching your home run in Such A Way used to be the only bat-flippin' controversy around here... ◇ There's a ton of Coors Field and co. features in here, and as far as I know it's accurate to that year. It really is a Mile High. ◇ The chocolate tower was a Noahsphere; the coconut dish was a form of haupia. ◇ Tools of ignorance! Catcher's gear. Origins? Period-typical (ironic) shitposting c. 1930s. ◇ Noting that Steve has said Mr. Aaron or even Mr. Henry pre-fic, but I figured Hank Aaron would've insisted on first-name basis enough that it'd stick with Steve. No disrespect is intended.

**Author's Note:**

> For non-baseball people: the team on offense is showing they can **bat** the ball so much better than the team on defense can **play catch** with it. The diamond is a folded-up racetrack with bases where each (only one at a time!) runner is safe, like save-points, while the defense actively gets the baseball to beat them there. Teams switch sides once an _inning_. In my opinion the most essential and confounding terms are three _balls_ afforded the pitcher (outside the strike zone, i.e. within range of the bat swing and over home plate), and in the event of a ball four, the batter is granted a free base, aka a _walk_ or [taking] a base on balls. Meanwhile the batter is given the famous three _strikes_ and you're out: three chances to hit the ball when it's in the strike zone. Therefore a 3-2 count—three balls and two strikes—is called a full count, where something is definitely going to happen in the next pitch.    

> 
> ## Los Angeles Dodgers, Avengers Edition
> 
> Starting rotation  
Luis Peña  
Thor Odinson  
Tony Stark  
Jim Morita  
Victor Alvarez
> 
> Bullpen relievers  
Monty Falsworth  
Peter Quill  
Danny Rand  
Bruce Banner (closer)  
Stephen Strange
> 
> Position Players  
Catcher - Dum-Dum Dugan  
Catcher - Bucky Barnes  
Catcher - James Rhodes  
First base - Luke Cage  
Second base - Miles Morales  
Third base - Clint Barton  
Shortstop - Steve Rogers  
Left Field - Scott Lang  
Center Field - Hector Ayala  
Right Field - Bobby da Costa  
Utility / bench - Jason Strongbow  
Utility / bench - Peter B. Parker
> 
> Coaches and Support Personnel  
Manager - Peggy Carter  
Coach (hitting) - Maria Hill  
Coach (bench) - Jason Wilkes  
Coach (first base) - Nick Fury  
Coach (third base) - Yondu  
Trainer - Phil Coulson  
Nutritionist - Pepper Potts  
Travel secretary - Heimdall
> 
>   
Other players (teams at season's start)  
Sam Wilson, Chicago White Sox infielder  
Pietro Maximoff, Cincinnati Reds infielder  
Georges Batroc, Pittsburgh Pirates infielder  
Jacques Dernier, Montreal Expos outfielder  
Gabe Jones, Montreal Expos catcher  
Josh Cooper, Chicago Cubs pitcher  
T'Challa, Oakland Athletics infielder  
M'Baku, Colorado Rockies relief pitcher (closer)  
Drax, San Francisco Giants pitcher  
Frank Castle, New York Mets pitcher
> 
> Supporting cast  
Natasha Romanoff, Steve's agent  
Laura Barton, Clint's wife  
Darcy Lewis, local reporter  
Winifred Barnes, Bucky's mom  
Becca Barnes, Bucky's sister  
Carol Danvers, USA Olympics baseball medalist  
Sharon Carter, physical therapist  
Shuri, T'Challa's agent  
Colleen Wing, translator  
Daniel Sousa, authenticator


End file.
